


Dream Not In Vain

by fyris, GooseWhiskers



Series: Silver Linings [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: A lot of hurt and suspense and then a lot MORE comfort and confession, Animal Attack, Canon Typical Violence, Dismemberment, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing in Action, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, PTSD, Past Sexual Abuse, Protectiveness, Ransom, Rescue Missions, Soulmates, Suspense, Tension, Torture, Whump, bedrest, dog attack, too stubborn to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28966782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyris/pseuds/fyris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooseWhiskers/pseuds/GooseWhiskers
Summary: It's Mal's birthday, and Nate's prepared a special meal to celebrate the occasion. Nothing.Nothingis going to ruin it.Except Mal never shows up.And may never show up, again. He's been taken captive by a vindictive raider boss with vengeance in mind. She wants The General dead, and knows just how to lure him out - by hurting the person he loves most. With her trap set, victory seems certain. But taunting wolves is arrogance, and a part of Nate wakes up that's been long buried. A part that scares him.
Relationships: OC/OC, Sole Survivor/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Silver Linings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006170
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Three Days

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete! We will upload new chapters every Sunday and Wednesday!
> 
> Mal and Nate both believed themselves to be the sosus of their vaults, only to discover that they were actually experimental Institute synths carrying the memories of two prewar survivors: one a disillusioned low-profile scavver, the other the Minuteman General known to be antagonistic to the Institute. Together, they seek answers about their past, and find a future.
> 
> After months of pining, this is the story of their confession

Nate was up before sunrise - as usual. But routine stopped hard and fast there. He’d been planning this day for weeks. Checking the wares of every passing trader, tidying the Castle like a Mr. Handy gone haywire, needlework by evening lantern light - all to make sure the stage would be set in time. Already possessing the reputation of a workaholic, Nate’s redoubled activity spurred bemusement and bewilderment among those stationed in the fort.

Mal’s birthday, after all, was worth extra effort. 

Nate wouldn’t miss it. 

Clear and cloudless - old farmers warned a change in the wind was likely to bring rain, but for now summer skies carried nothing but promise. And besides, what was a little rain after all? Frogs croaking from the reeds outside echoed Nate’s sentiment.

By mid-morning, he’d hung banners in the meeting room. Soup was on the stove - molerat and dandelion, improved from its first iteration by access to a fair few more spices and vegetables. A tarberry pie baked in the oven. And a gift, affectionately crafted, covered in actual, honest to goodness wrapping paper, sat on the table. No billowing crowds or eager sycophants would disturb the event. This would be an afternoon for only the two of them. Nate had made sure of that, too. 

Come noon, the meal was ready and preparations finished. All that remained was to wait for Mal, who ought to arrive any minute. Nate walked the curtain, greeting the watchmen in passing, an undisguised bounce in his step. He wondered whether Mal would enjoy the meal, and the gift. The idea of presenting them after so much time and dedication brought a little anxiety, though excitement far outweighed any reservations. 

Half an hour later Nate realized Mal must be running late.

Nate adjusted the heat on the stove accordingly. Rearranged a few decorations. Scratched at some lingering dust. Made another cup of wasteland coffee.

By the second hour, the watchmen had taken notice, too. 

Mal hadn’t been so far out. 

He should’ve arrived by now. A habitual prickle began to spread down Nate’s neck.

Maybe - they’d miscommunicated the time. 

They hadn’t. 

But Nate allowed his mind to rest on that assumption as an alternative to other possibilities. He cleaned a bit. Tended the meal. The pie wouldn’t be warm anymore, but it could be heated later, and regardless still taste good. 

Paranoia eventually won out and he sent a coded broadcast over the radio, in case Mal was listening. Nothing came of it. But that was alright. Delays happened. All sorts of reasons. This didn’t mean tragedy. Outwardly Nate remained calm. 

Without being asked, the patrols ran further than their usual routes that evening. 

Not a single sign. Nothing unusual at all. No news was good news, right? 

Except _Mal_ wouldn’t have missed this, either… A sick wound began to worm in Nate’s stomach. 

Eventually, he had to put up the meal to preserve it. Which sank in his gut like surrender. He couldn’t store the feeling away so easily.

Night fell, and rain with it. The frogs kept singing. He paced worried circles around his room. He didn’t sleep much.

By the second day, there wasn’t any use pretending everything was fine. A harmless delay would have been communicated by now. He left with the patrols. Searched the entire route Mal would have followed, and any likely looking hideaways nearby. Nothing.

_Gone._

In restless stoicism, Nate performed every possible duty that might help. He didn’t lose his composure. Didn’t show fear. Still the militia cast looks and shared worried whispers. Gossip spread fast, and Mal’s continued absence was noted by all of them.

But Mal was smart. Resourceful. He’d come back. They’d find him. Alive.

 _Alive._

Each report that did not bring news about Mal left Nate more on edge. Every hour without results seemed to drag answers further and further from reach. Old fears mixed with new ones, and the realization that something had gone very, _very_ wrong clouded every thought, word, and action. None of it was enough.

_Gone._

Nate spent that night on watch. Bleak visions haunted his peripheral, and he shuddered with a cold that didn’t match the season. Celebration turned sour never tasted so sickly.

On the third day, a rattled looking courier arrived at the South gate, several hours late, carrying a crude parcel and the marks of abuse. 

Nate staggered across the parade ground at a run when news reached him, pushing past the South-side watchmen who quickly pulled to attention at their General’s arrival. 

He was tentatively handed the message, and ripped open the tattered wrappings like a creature possesed. The world stopped turning. He knew the blade. He knew the handwriting of the letter. He knew the tattered, bloody feather charm still tangled in a patch of familiar auburn hair. 

“Sir?” Preston asked. When he’d arrived on the scene, Nate couldn’t be sure. The tone urged conversation, planning, _orders_. As if they had time for any of that now. 

Something terrible and sleeping stirred awake deep inside him. Something hateful.

* * *

Mal had fucked up.

That reality in and of itself was nothing new, but the frequency of his own failures didn’t exactly soothe the guilt that realization brought with it.

It’d started as a crime of opportunity for the group of very startled (and then very delighted) raiders whose window he’d tumbled through, but ultimately it wasn’t Mal they wanted to hurt. He was just the means to a much worse end. One where Nate was the real target. The guilt and fear of that alone cut deeper than anything they’d done or threatened him with. Mal might’ve been the catalyst, but Nate would be the one to bear the worst of the consequences.

All hopes of escape had been squashed early on—not that Mal hadn’t _tried_. But this group was more proactive, and seemed to anticipate his maneuvers before he could put them into action. They were _careful_.

Cautious, intelligent raiders—it sounded like an oxymoron, and it was _definitely_ a pain in the ass.

The consequence meant Mal was kept restrained and under constant watch. There were two assigned guards, usually. Three, now that they’d moved him to the location of the exchange: an old factory, from what little Mal had seen of it, reeking of rusted metal and decay and buried under two hundred years of set-in grime.

They'd set him up in the basement, inside a small, concrete room that smelled of iron and mildew and felt cold enough to double as a meat locker. Maybe an old storage closet, or maintenance room. Four bare walls, a low ceiling, and a heavy metal door offering the only way in or out. A couple sputtering oil lanterns resting in the corners offered enough light to see by, and went a long way to amp up the 'spooky raider lair' ambiance of the set up.

Cliche, but effective.

The only other even remotely interesting thing in his cell was a battered metal table they’d dragged out of some other part of the ruins. The chair he was cuffed to was set up in front of it—originally so he could write their ransom note, and now he supposed just because they were too lazy to cart it off again. 

The top was dented and smeared with mostly-dried blood; leftovers from their attempts to motivate him to write it in the first place. Mal stared down at it with deliberate apathy, even after the door screeched open on rusted hinges and the leader of the raider gang strode into the room.

Slugs wore harsh lines across her face like they were never going out of style, a testament to the number of years she’d survived - thrived even - as a proverbial raider Queen. Thrived, at least, until the Minutemen came back on the scene. Now Nate, who couldn’t be bribed or intimidated or befriended, had kept her on the run for months. 

She was a little resentful of that. And she wore resentment too, plain in the icy satisfaction of her sneer as she looked Mal over. The key to her long-awaited vengeance.

“No smile for me?” She taunted, flexing an eager fist, “Don’t tell me that mouth of yours has finally run out of shit to talk.” 

Mal ignored the comment and leaned to the side, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the already filthy concrete. He wished she’d stepped closer, he would’ve aimed for her face.

With deliberate carelessness, she dropped a tin of dog food on the table. Opened for Mal’s _convenience_ , as he wasn’t allowed near so much as a can opener. “ _Bon appetit_.”

"Breakfast in bed? Gee—you shouldn't have.” Mal looked up for the first time since Slugs had stepped in the room, lips curling back into a bloody snarl. “You’re gonna spoil me with all this four star treatment."

“There’s the teeth.” She grinned, “I’ve still got half a mind to lock you in the kennel with the other dogs, let _them_ straighten you out.” 

One of the men on watch snickered. Judging by the mangled scar to his arm, he was acquainted with this particular brand of keeping order. “S’what he deserves after screwin’ up Marquee’s face.”

Slugs’ brow flicked upward, and she reclined against a bare wall to pick idly at dirty fingernails. “Doesn’t really matter what shape you’re in, so long as he can recognize you.” No need to explain who she meant. “He should be finding your note just about now. Damn I wish I could be there to see the look on his face.” 

"I guess it takes a bitch to run a kennel of them," Mal said, shifting enough to pull against his restraints. Cold metal bit into his wrists in tandem with the equally unyielding pull of rope against his legs. His left hand throbbed angrily at the movement. "Explains the fleas, too."

She’d been waiting for the excuse. Savage fire lit Slugs’ eyes, as the abrupt grip of a guard yanked Mal by the hair and shoved him face first against the bloodied steel slab. 

Resting her palms against the table, Slugs leaned in and growled, “That’s _right._ I’m a bad bitch, and every one of my dogs wants a piece of your scrawny runt hide. They’ve been real well behaved so far.”

A spidery hand darted out, squeezing tight around Mal’s broken fingers and pressing down. “So maybe once I get what I want, I’ll give them a little treat.” 

Mal bit back a scream, the sound muffled by the filthy table top as he struggled under the hands holding him in place. Dark spots burst across his vision and he closed his eyes against the pain, tried to ride it out.

When he opened them again they burned with furious defiance. “Fuck you,” he snarled.

Not the answer she wanted. After three days, this battle of wills had erupted into all out war, one where neither side seemed to have any notion of surrender. Slugs squeezed harder, yanking the hand taut against the restraints. _“What was that, again?”_

Even prepared there was no real bracing for it. The agony blinded him, and Mal let out a pained yell, instinctively trying to curl into himself. Chest heaving, he struggled to draw in enough air to keep up with the runaway pace his heart had set, Slugs' words buzzing at the edge of his awareness.

Mal swallowed hard, tasting blood. "Y-You heard me," he said, steel lacing his tone despite the unsteadiness of his words. "Go fuck yourself...you fleabitten piece of dog shit."

The deliberate confidence of Slugs’s fury fractured. 

She whistled once - a hoarse, grating sound. Tension braced around the room and the three guards stilled in anticipation. Heavy pawsteps sounded from the door as a ghoulish dog came to stand at heel beside her. Missing a nose and most of its fur, jagged teeth impended from a withered jaw at eye level to Mal. 

“Pincer, leave him.” Slugs savaged, freeing a knife from her belt, and the guard securing Mal stepped back. Her grip tightened on his hand, pinning it to the table with more strength than one might expect from her size. “You know what? I think I’ll treat them _now._ ”

The blade plummeted downward without regard for flesh or sinew, lodging somewhere inside the bone of Mal’s pinky finger. 

The shock of realization hit almost simultaneously with the pain, and Mal struggled against the restraints, an incoherent mix of swears and screams shattering the tension in the room. 

Hot blood poured from the wound as the knife bit deeper. It pooled on the table and wound its way down the side of his hand, his wrist, drops of it spattering against the dusty concrete floor. Slugs twisted her grip on the knife, grinding it carelessly against bone, unbothered by his attempts to pull away. 

The sense of _wrongness_ , the pressure, the wet crunch as the knife finally sunk deep into the knuckle and then the abrupt _end_ to that resistance was almost as bad as the pain. The room spun, snowy white static creeping across Mal's vision.

A punctuated quiet ensued. Then she laughed. Slugs lifted the severed finger up to examine, releasing her grip on Mal. He had ceased to be of interest. Thin streams of red ran down her hand and blade alike, petty nuisances she flicked the worst of off in his direction.

Mal flinched at the casual gesture, pulling back as far as the cuffs allowed. A trail of fresh blood followed his retreat, dribbling onto the ground below the arm of the chair.

The dog sat eagerly, glassy eyes intent upon its master’s possession.

“I don’t feed _my_ pets that canned trash.” She commented. “I teach ‘em how to hunt real protein.” Signalling to the hound, she reached down to balance the lifeless stub over its snout. It shifted, but held, waiting for the command of its master. 

He knew he didn’t want to watch this, but he was transfixed by the savage horror of it, unable to look away.

A snap of her fingers, and Mal’s pinky vanished into a mouth of hungry teeth. The heavy crunch of bone between molars popped through the air, stark against the featureless room. One guard grinned. 

Licking wrinkled jowls, her pet sat once more, sniffing eagerly only to turn its gaze towards Mal. 

Another whistle, and Slugs reclaimed its attention. “Next time I’ll feed him your tongue.” She said, perfunctory dominance once again reassured.

Mal twitched his gaze down and away from Slugs and her pet. Struggled to not be sick, to not _panic_. 

Breaths coming in shallow, labored motions, he curled his uninjured hand around the arm of the chair and only then realized he was shaking. Whatever fury had possessed him until now dampened to almost nothing—a blaze starved of oxygen. 

Swallowing down the taste of salt and iron, Mal tried to focus on anything but the agony chewing through the nerves of his mutilated hand. He had plenty of practice dealing with pain—managing it, separating himself from it, packing it away in neat little boxes—but this was an entirely different kind of hurt. The context felt simultaneously foreign and eerily familiar; it brushed up against much older, deeper wounds, and he struggled to compartmentalize it.

After a few seconds Mal closed his eyes, hoping Slugs would be satisfied with her pound of flesh.

She stared at him for a while in silence, weighing the strength of her success. Discolored drool seeped between the dog’s exposed teeth.

“If he gives the rest of you any trouble, feel free to take another digit off.” Slugs sneered. “Just don’t let him bleed to death. Until that bastard Ronan is a pile of raw bones in my kennel, we need this chucklefuck alive.”

Leaning over Mal again with a smile full of teeth, she added, “And _then_ \- you can join him.”

At the mention of Nate, Mal opened his eyes and stared up at Slugs, a tentative flicker of defiance still present behind the glassiness of pain and shock. It held for a heartbeat. Sputtered weakly, trying to gain a foothold. 

_Two. Three._

Drawing in a shaky breath, Mal let it burn out as quickly as it had rekindled. He dropped his gaze back to his lap without further comment.

She issued a satisfied huff. Turning to her guards, Slugs said, “I’m heading back out to check the perimeter with the dogs, see if we can’t hunt down that scavver who’s been snooping around. It’ll be a good trial run for this evening. You and the others can draw straws to see who gets guard shift and who gets to watch when Ronan arrives. Except Marquee; dumbass can’t even handle _this_ rat. He stays inside. No aftershow for him, either.” 

No one argued. 

And then she left. The hound at her heel hesitated long enough to lick its slobbering lips over Mal’s blood, then followed beside her. 

The creature spared a look back at the door. Slugs did not.


	2. Carrion Birds

After Slugs left, the buffering high of adrenaline faded and the weight of pain and exhaustion left Mal to drift. The hours rolled into each other without distinction, only the sparse chatter of his guards breaking the monotony.

As the day wore on, he also grew increasingly aware that he hadn’t been offered anything to drink since the previous evening. His little stunt that morning had thrown off the usual schedule, and after taking away the uneaten can of dog food, nothing else had been offered.

It seemed like a trivial thing to focus on, with Nate’s life on the line, with everything hanging in uncertain balance, but it was just one more irritant stacked on top of numerous others—discomforts he couldn’t escape or distract himself from. At least the pain in his hand had settled to a somewhat bearable level as long as he kept it still, although by now his own restlessness was proving to be almost more of a frustration than anything else.

By the time the next guard change rolled around, Mal had grown fidgety enough that even that seemed like a welcome change of pace. Of all the trials he’d expected to suffer in this kind of situation, boredom hadn’t been one he’d anticipated would take this much of a toll on him.

A grave oversight, apparently.

Pitch. Jailbird. Marquee. Creative names - by Raider standards - though their actual relevance to each bearer’s reputation remained vague. Marquee’s face was still swollen like a blimp, sporting every known shade of purple - and maybe a few new discoveries. Short of paying for a bonafide surgery, his nose would never heal straight.

They all knew about the finger by now, Pitch unable to resist the jab as they crowded in like raucous carrion eaters. “Heard you squealed real good earlier! Ol’Slugs finally had enough of your bullshit eh?”

“No, _no,_ ” Jailbird snickered, elbowing her companion away to shove her own face in front of Mal, “She let him off _easy_.” Grinning, she rapped all ten of her knuckles on the metal table, “We can get you to howl I bet, loud enough her pets bark back. Wanna try?”

"Yeah?" Mal asked, lip quirking half heartedly as he nodded towards Marquee. "Like that one did when I busted his nose?"

“ _Hah!”_ She cackled, turning back to look at the others in disbelief. “You hear this fucker?”

“Lost a finger but he’s still got lip.” Pitch sneered.

“ _Yeah._ ” When she spun back to Mal, she spun with a fist. 

Her blow landed dead center with a sharp crack and the audible crunch of breaking cartilage. It snapped his head to the side, the bright shock of pain momentarily blinding him. Mal choked as blood poured down the back of his throat, oozed hot and wet down the front of his face. Eyes watering, he blinked down at the table and drew in a ragged breath through clenched teeth, dazed as much as anything.

Jailbird’s fist yanked into Mal’s hair, pulling his head back to sneer at the broken outline of his features, “You think you’re better than us ‘cause you pal around with that goody-goody asshole?” She shook him in her grip, “Look where you’re at, runt. This is what you get for screwing with the Wolves.” 

Mal bared bloodstained teeth in a pained snarl. Hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then met Jailbird's gaze, and spit in her face.

Her surprise devolved into a shriek; the heel of her palm rammed hard against his nose. “Little shit! Fucking piece of ‘claw bait! I’ll shove your face into your skull-” 

Scrubbing the bloody drool off, she held it up for him to see, much too close for dizzy eyes to focus on. “That isn’t _funny_ , that’s just one more thing we’re gonna pay back double to Ronan.” 

Mal let out a strangled sound, something caught between a wheeze and a groan and fresh blood bubbled up over his lips, spilled down the side of his mouth. The world started to slip out of focus. He struggled to answer Jailbird, but pain and disorientation kept the words just out of reach.

“Can you believe our luck?” Jailbird griped to Pitch, wiping her hand free of saliva onto Mal’s tangled hair. “We gotta deal with this fuck-up and put up with Marquee’s ugly face while the rest of ‘em watch the show.”

Marquee, still entirely quiet, flinched faintly in his spot at the back of the room. 

“I’ve been with Slugs half a decade, why am I stuck down here?” She shook Mal by the scalp again for emphasis.

“‘Least we get _some_ entertainment.” Pitch pulled out a cigarette. Originally one of Mal’s, now divvied up around the den like most of his other belongings. “I heard Slugs was thinkin’ about dragging it out this time. Maybe stick the two of ‘em in the cage together when she lets the dogs loose to finish it. Pincer’s already taking bets on which one lasts longer.”

“Psh, no way she risks Ronan slipping through her fingers again.” Jailbird lamented bitterly. “He’ll be dead before he’s inside. Where’s the fun in _that?_ ”

“How the hell’s he gonna get away?” Pitch issued a harsh stream of smoke. “He’ll be _alone_ , no way out, with more than half our guns on him. Nah. Thanks to our little buddy here, we got Ronan for sure this time. No quick out for that bastard, after all the trouble he’s caused us.” 

Jailbird’s lips puckered thoughtfully, half-nodding to the point. She managed a moment of quiet, then grinned back in Mal’s direction. “You still in there, huh? Y’hear that? You might actually get to watch, too. Must feel good to be so special.”

It wasn’t like Mal had forgotten what was at stake—like he could even if he’d wanted to. But Jailbird’s words cut through the haze and struck right at the heart of the issue.

Guilt and anger waged a vicious war against one another. And, riding just beneath the surface of that—fear. Not for himself—Mal had already accepted this was a battle he wasn’t coming home from—but for Nate.

Over the past three days, Mal hadn't once doubted that Nate would come for him. Because of course he would. Nate would come, because he was a good person. Because that’s what he did. Even when he shouldn’t.

Even when the person he was going to die for wasn’t remotely worth that kind of sacrifice.

Fuelled by shame and helpless rage, bitter defiance flared to life again. Mal met Jailbird's gaze, a different kind of emptiness present behind his eyes now. Something like resignation. Or acceptance.

Mal struggled against her hold. Not a real attempt at escape, but a statement of principle all the same.

She jerked him back hard, like a toy on a string. “Aww, c’mon, you should be grateful. We’re being awful generous with you.”

“Easy there. At this rate you’ll shake his brains out.” Pitch warned, with no real sympathy.

“That’s the idea. Can’t knock sense into him, might as well knock it out.” 

Chuckling, Pitch held out his half-finished cigarette. 

She shoved Mal away, then, to stand beside her friend and take an eager puff. “I still think this is bullshit. We ought to be up there, we deserve that much.”

“Yeah, you wanna take it up with the boss? Be my guest.”

No longer being supported by Jailbird, Mal slumped forward in his seat, coughing weakly. Staring down at the steel table, he waited for the world to settle. Blood oozed from his nose in a steady trickle, but at least the change in angle meant he wasn’t choking on it.

After a few seconds, he stopped seeing double. Some of the dizziness receded, leaving only the insistent pain throbbing in his hand and chest and...everything else from the neck up. Mal listened with half an ear to what his two guards were chattering about, and finally lifted his head to glance around the room again. Noticed, for the first time, that the kid whose nose he’d broken yesterday— _Marquee?_ —was hanging off to the side.

He was younger than the others, by a decade at least. Scrawny with hunched shoulders and armor that didn’t fit quite right. After a moment he realized he was being watched. His reaction was difficult to gauge beneath the disaster of his face, but he made what might read as the attempt at a scowl. Then looked away, shuffling his feet.

Mal took in the info with detached curiosity. He wondered if the kid was just gunshy now, or if he didn't have the same taste for this that his "friends" did.

Dismissing the thought, Mal let his eyes drift back to Jailbird and Pitch. A swirling mess of contradictory impulses tangled in his chest, as the futile desire to instigate conflicted with increasing weariness.

They continued their petty complaints and optimistic imaginings for what horrors awaited Nate. With him out of the way, neither saw any reason they shouldn’t be ruling the Boston trade routes again before winter. 

Pitch noticed Mal’s scrutiny first. Sneered. Which drew Jailbird’s attention, too. 

“You chime in, mallet face.” Pitch baited, “Is Ronan more likely to go down screaming, or is he the blubbering, begging type? Assuming he gets disemboweled, of course. Can’t do much of either without a throat.”


	3. Wolf

It would be dark, soon. 

The first spotter went down without so much as a cry - blood, flesh, and bone spewing from tattered cavity where his heart used to be. Nate was on his feet heading for the next perch before the body hit the ground.

He’d come alone, as demanded. Against the frantic advisement of his officers. To the awe and dismay of his troops.

Demanding that he come alone was these Raiders’ second mistake. 

Mal’s tattered feather charm and the red-stained ransom note sheltered in Nate’s pocket. He doubted the ransom was sincere, hadn’t bothered bringing any caps even if it was. They’d had Mal for three days.

Three days at the mercy of a vicious enemy.

_Too long._

Three days, and done enough in half that time to convince him to write the note at all.

_Too long._

He may not even be alive. 

_Too late?_

Beside that uncertainty no strategy, negotiation, or terror could compare. Nate’s mind loomed somewhere cold and vertiginous.

Slipping back through the wreckage of Boston’s corpse, he crept with predatory confidence to his next vantage point, where the second spotter lay exposed. Good hiding places, if they had been watching for a mob or an infantry. _Predictable._

He tracked them down like a creature drawn to the scent of blood. There existed fear, and fury, and far beyond either of those the raging beast in his chest loomed with tapetum eyes and bone-hungry fangs. 

They had come for Mal with petty cruelties and misplaced arrogance, fitting for undisciplined mongrels. These people would never know the scope of their miscalculation. They wouldn’t survive the night

The second spotter went down in equal silence, a .45 to the skull turning brain matter into pasta. 

And then the guard patrolling the back of the factory, with his dog.

It was a few minutes after that when they found the first of the dead. The alarm went out in a slow spread, the rest of the outside watch coalescing in an increasingly frenzied swarm. Nate’s rifle was aimed at the front door by then, counting marks.

At the first sign of trouble outside, Pincer took off like a shot, heading deeper into the factory to find Slugs and relay the situation, while the remaining two guards piled inside and deliberated at the factory entrance.

“What the—Ripper, don’t go back out there man, someone’s shooting up the place. You got a death wish or somethin’?” The first raider gestured, one hand resting on the stock of his pipe rifle, the other flicking animatedly in his friend’s direction. “Least wait for the Boss to get her dogs, see if they can sniff something out first—”

With a wordless snarl, Ripper shoved the younger raider aside, blunted features twisting into a rictus of fury, mind already made up. Riding the invincibility of a psycho-induced high, his ally's arguments fell on deaf ears.

Gun at the ready, Ripper hesitated at the entrance just long enough to sidle up to the opening, back to the threshold as he leaned around the corner, hoping to catch sight of the mysterious assailant.

He lasted about two-and-a-half seconds. Crumpled under a splatter of red. 

Horror bleached his friend’s face, who halfway started to approach, then thought better of showing any part of himself through the door. There was no question whether it’d been a killing blow. You could hardly recognize Ripper’s face at all. 

Half-coherent gibberish spilled off the survivor’s tongue and he bolted.

* * *

The door to Slug’s makeshift office banged open as Pincer strode through it, grim urgency written across his face.

“Boss,” he said, “We got a situation out in the yard. Someone took out three of the guys on patrol. Heard one of the shots myself.” He grunted, beady eyes flicking back towards the office door with something like nervousness, then looked back to Slugs. “What’s your call?”

_“What?”_ She snarled, already on her feet and reaching for her shotgun. They were heading back down the stairs toward the main level in the span of a few seconds, “Who’s left?”

“The three still downstairs, babysitting Ronan’s lapdog,” Pincer listed as they reached the bottom of the stairs, “Then Ripper and—”

A gunshot echoed through the main floor of the factory.

Slugs paused mid-step and braced her firearm, lip rippling with fury. After a fraction given to consideration, she ordered, “Go tell the others we’ve got company, I’ll get the dogs. If it’s Ronan trying to play hero _I’ll have him eaten alive._ ”

Pincer offered a curt nod, hefting his supersledge and giving it a flourishing twirl.

A fraction of a second later, a distressed yelp sounded and Yancey careened around one of the large, rusted out pieces of machinery dotting the factory floor, yelling, “They shot Ripper! He was just standin’ there, right next to me, and—”

Slugs’s fist closed around Yancey’s shirt collar, yanking him uncomfortably close mid-sentence and cutting him off with a _hck!_ “Why the _hell_ aren’t you watching the door!”

The distantt echo of a rusty hinge groaned through the decrepit ruin, rolling shut with a single, portentous clamor.

Slugs looked ready to shoot Yancey on the spot. If she hadn’t been down four guns already, she would’ve. “ _You._ Come with _me._ We’re going to clean up this pile of shit you just left inside.” Not waiting for a response, Slugs dragged the young raider with her toward the entrance while Pincer split for the others. 

A maze of looming old machinery cast dark shadows past the few fluorescent lights they’d managed to get working. From their cages, the dogs barked and growled, alerted by now to the presence of an intruder - and as confident as their master in the possibility of hunting him down. 

Motes of dust drifted through the air, casting a haze upon the dim scene.

Relaying her instructions by way of a rough shove, Slugs had Yancey circle around the perimeter of the old world tech in the opposite direction to her. They’d pin him, if it all went according to plan.

“You can’t hide, asshole. Not from me, not from my friends here.” She taunted. 

Only quiet answered for a long span of moments. That irritated her.

Then the harsh salvo of Yancey’s pipe rifle lit the gloom somewhere down the way. “I-it’s him! _Ronan!”_

Slugs lunged for the kennel, flipping the latch to send her braying pets rushing out - nearly trampling one another in their haste. She grinned, “Been waiting a long time for this, Bastard!” 

* * *

Pincer descended the basement stairs in silence, only the light of a few scattered oil lanterns sputtering along the steps offering any reprieve from the darkness yawning below.

At the bottom, more flickering lamps illuminated a tentative path through scattered rubble and trash, shrinking what had once been a long, open room to an almost claustrophobic hallway, crowded by toppled machinery and impassable walls of rubble.

Reaching the door of the small, improvised cell ahead, Pincer shouldered it open without warning. After glancing briefly over the room, he barked, “We’ve got company. Move.”

As if to drive home his point, the rapid _pop-pop_ of distant gunfire echoed down the stairwell. The furious howling of Slugs’ hounds followed a moment later.

“Ronan?” Pitch asked, dropping an unfinished cigarette on the floor and moving to secure Mal. An angry brow cut over worried eyes, “He didn’t bring men with him, did he?”

At the mention of Nate, Mal looked to the door, sudden focus sharpening his expression. 

Pincer gave a terse shake of his head. “Dunno. But someone took out everyone but Slugs and Yancey.” He offered an uncertain rumble, deep in his throat. Hefted the super sledge in one massive hand, slinging it casually over his shoulder. “I’ll head off anyone coming down the stairs. You—” He nodded towards Pitch and Jailbird, but let his eyes flick over Marquee in an act of passive dismissal. “Get Ronan’s pet ready to move. I’m not taking chances here.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Pitch exhaled, grabbing roughly at Mal’s de-pinkied hand to unlock the cuffs restraining him. Mal flinched at the movement, a pained sound catching in his throat.

Jailbird’s smile had withered, now real fear stained her face. “You think it’s really him? He couldn’t - there’s no way he’d be this stupid, right?”

For a second too long, Pitch hesitated. But then insisted, “No. _No way._ Ronan’s too soft. You’ve seen how cautious he is, this ain’t his style. Not by a long shot. Our plan was solid.”

“Then who the hell’s out there?” She hissed.

“Some jet sucking freak? I don’t know.” 

Still tucked away in the corner of the room, shoulders hunched, Marquee looked to the others with increasingly open concern. Fear, even.

Pitch fumbled over the restraints to Mal’s legs, swearing violently. “Whoever they are, Slugs and her dogs will take care of ‘em. I don’t care how many chems you got on board, it won’t save you from those beasts.”

“Yeah - none of those guys were real smart anyhow. I didn’t even like Ripper.” Jailbird sounded only a little convinced. “Slugs has got us through worse binds than this.” Pulling the chair back, she dug her fingers into Mal’s shoulder and tugged. “Get up, you. I won’t ask twice.”

Mal staggered to his feet at Jailbird’s prompting, swaying as the pitch of vertigo and the relentless pounding in his head threatened to pull him off balance. He watched the door, the fear-tinged words buzzing around the room now acutely less important than what was happening upstairs.

_Nate._

A faint spark of hope found dry tinder to burn. It _had_ to be him; the timing was too much of a coincidence. Half of Slugs’ crew down, the rest stirred up in a panic…

And if Nate was here—not to give himself over in passive surrender, but to _fight back_ —that changed the field. It changed Mal’s strategy.

It changed everything.

* * *

The howling of Slugs' pets ceased, along with the harsh reports of answering gunfire. Dust sifted down from the ceiling like snow, settling in the fractured lantern light.

Silence reigned.

Taking up position in the hall, Pincer hefted his sledge in a two-handed grip. Tested the familiar weight of it, the stony lines of his face an impassive mask.

Pincer waited.

For Slugs, or Yancey to sound the all clear, or—

Well. In the event that it _was_ Ronan, that he’d somehow taken out Slugs, Pincer supposed he’d just have to finish the job himself. He held no love for Slugs, or the rest of the crew. Ultimately whether they lived or died made no difference to him.

There were always other gangs. Other bosses.

Or maybe, this time he’d step up and crown himself king.

Footsteps. 

An unfamiliar gait - but maybe just because of the faint limp in it. 

And then another pause floated through the air, pungent with foreboding. 

Something round and metal clattered down the stairs toward Pincer’s feet. Hard to identify in the gloom, in those short seconds. But the right size to fit in a palm. The right size to be a grenade.

The object skittered in Pincer’s direction, the size and shape of it telling enough for him to not bother checking twice.

With a startled grunt, he swept a foot out, kicking it off and away down the hall under another heap of collapsed ceiling. He twisted to the side, around and out of sight of the stairwell, sheltering against a slab of ruined wall.

Waited for the explosion.

Waited…

Assured of the presence of a single close enemy, Nate came lunging down the stairs to put sights on them, rifle already aimed at the level of a heart. 

Pincer realized he’d been tricked a moment too late. There was no grenade, no explosion, only _Ronan_.

Whirling out from his hiding place, Pincer swung the sledgehammer, aiming for Ronan’s head.

He ducked and lurched backward, stumbling in the haste but pulling hard on the trigger. A bright flash of light illuminated them for a split second, revealing eye-whites wide with primitive rage and hair slick with gore.

By the time Pincer realized he’d missed, it was already over. He stumbled back, teeth bared, one hand pressed to his chest where Ronan’s shot had struck. Blood spilled between his fingers.

He made to heft the sledge again and found his hands unwilling to cooperate. Stumbling, Pincer crashed hard against a nearby slab of rubble. Braced a massive hand against the concrete, the other still holding onto the sledge with weakening fingers.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

The hammer slipped from his fist and clattered against the floor. 

Pincer followed after, blood pooling black around him in the flickering lantern light.

Nate shot him again to be sure. The head this time. 

And then his cold glare turned slowly up to the room at the end of the hall. The gruesome phantom of his silhouette stalked forward, dragging a thin metallic trail behind it.


	4. "Negotiations"

Silence fell over the hall as the last echoes of the shot faded, and the cut of a familiar figure turned his head. 

Mal had time for a lightning flash of recognition. His breath caught.

Nate was alive. Nate was _here_. 

Then Pitch slammed the door shut with enough force to shake the doorframe, and inside the room chaos reigned.

“Shit, fuck, damnit, shit, _shit”_ Jailbird crowed, knuckled squeezing white against Mal’s arm as she restrained him. 

Pitch was already bracing the door with the chair Mal had been tied to earlier. He looked to Marquee and hissed, “Get up here and man the door.” Holding tight to his own gun, Pitch jagged back and forth on uncertain feet. “Okay - we… _fuck._ It’s just one dude, maybe if we rush him?”

“ _Rush him?”_

“You got a better idea?”

Shaking faintly, Jailbird already had a knife in her hand, aimed upward at Mal’s throat, “We send this little shit out first. If it’s Ronan maybe he’ll just leave.”

“No fuckin’ way, he’s our only bargaining chip if it _is_ Ronan.” Pitch’s shoulders squared, a snarl playing at his mouth.

Something like a shriek garbled out of Jailbird’s mouth, flat of the blade pressing tighter against Mal. “That look like a negotiator t’you out there?”

Eyes wide, Marquee fumbled with his gun, readying the shitty pipe pistol with hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it twice before taking a spot opposite Pitch. Beneath the ugly bruising deforming his features, Marquee was pale, skin sallow and glistening with cold sweat.

A child playing desperately at being a soldier—shaking with fear, half-sick from it, on the edge of tears.

Mal locked eyes with him as the kid took his place, and a distorted reflection of himself mirrored back from Marquee's terror-glazed eyes. Mal felt something flicker deep, deep down in the cavernous hollow of his chest. An unexpected glimmer of sympathy.

The echoes of principles Nate had left behind.

_Ah, shit…_

Drawing in a breath, uncomfortably aware of the blade digging into his throat, Mal made his choice. "Let me...let me talk to him.” Jailbird’s grip squeezed tighter, ripe with fear and warning but too desperate to force his silence. “ _Hnn_ —I can...can get him to let you walk. Cut you a deal."

Pitch sneered, “Shut him up.” 

The words barely left his mouth before the door rattled faintly, followed by the sound of a kick that reverberated through the room like an oncoming quake. 

“You aren’t _getting in_ asshole! There’s three of us, and we’re all armed!” 

A brief silence. And then came Nate’s voice, thick with solemn menace even through the muffling of the barrier between them, “Open the door.” 

The words sat heavy in the cold air. Anger, frustration, coercion - these weren’t unfamiliar tactics from Nate against stubborn enemies. But the promise of premeditated brutality carried in his tone _now_ was altogether foreign. As if a demon controlled his tongue, and he was a hostage himself. “ _I won’t ask twice.”_

Mal tensed. Fidgeted, right hand curling and uncurling as he flexed against the cuffs binding his hands behind his back. The dissonance between Nate’s voice and his tone refused to register at first. The _wrongness_ of it sent Mal reeling like he'd taken another blow to the head, and tore him away from whatever relief Nate’s initial proximity had brought.

Because that was definitely Nate—here, now, outside the door—but the uncompromising vengeance threatened by his words was _not_. 

Mal’s heart twisted in pain and fear as he wondered what damage had already been done to leave Nate so altered. Then a fresh tide of horror swelled at the reality of what Nate would regret when it finally passed.

What that would do to him.

Revenge wasn't worth that; nothing was worth that.

_Mal_ wasn't worth that.

Almost frantically, Mal hissed to Jailbird, "Look, if you don't do what he says _I can't help you_ , just—"

Obedient to Pitch’s instruction, Jailbird yanked Mal back and wedged her knife high against his throat, sharp edge threatening his windpipe. “ _Shuttup.”_ She stammered, shifting to stand fully behind him, only her head peeking out over his shoulder as she stared down the entryway.

“If he thinks he can shove his way through that barricade with a rifle, he’s got another thing coming.” Pitch insisted, checking his weapon. 

The quiet outside lasted a little too long in response. 

He looked back at Mal, grimace bared, and then to Jailbird. Yelling again, he leaned against the wall, “If you’re trying to _scare_ us, you oughtta ju-”

The ear-splitting clamor of metal on metal drowned him out, as Pincer’s rocket-propelled sledgehammer collided with the rusty door, leaving a sizeable dent along the hinged side. 

Suddenly beginning to comprehend the gravity of his miscalculation, Pitch paled several shades. Jailbird stepped backward, dragging Mal awkwardly toward the far reach of the small room, swearing profusely enough to put a sailor to shame.

Yelping, Marquee skittered away from the door, abandoning his post without a second thought. He kept a hold on his pistol with shaking hands— _barely_ —but it looked like he'd forgotten he was even holding it.

“Get back here!” Pitch hissed, gaping with fury - but ultimately keeping his attention fixed on the looming threat.

Mal winced as Jailbird shrieked in his ear, by some miracle managing to stay on his feet as she maneuvered them roughly across the space. Her hands trembled, and he struggled to breathe past the choking press of the knife.

A second hit, and the middle hinge warped, groaning under the impact.

This time Mal didn't try to speak; there wouldn’t be a third warning.

Two clubs later and the nails holding the door upright fractured. The black abyss of the hallway beyond reached out from the corners; one more blow would likely send the barrier crashing down. Pitch raised his rifle. 

Nate smashed through with a final hurl, lurching backwards and sideways to avoid the direct line of fire that issued in a frenzy from the basement cell. He dropped the sledge, reaching again for his rifle. But kept a finger off the trigger.

From narrow cover beside the doorway, Nate watched the opening critically and called out. “Mal, you alive in there? Or do I start throwing grenades.”

Pitch tensed, unwilling to risk stepping out in the open. Jailbird’s grip staggered on Mal, holding him like some impenetrable shield. _“Tell him!”_ She whispered harshly in his ear, and then shouted, “He’s here! I- _i_ wouldn’t shoot if I were you!”

Mal hesitated long enough to let his eyes flicker in Marquee's direction. The kid was all but hunched into the farthest corner, distanced from his so-called friends. His pipe pistol dangled loosely from one hand, aimed at the floor where it had been pointed the entire time. He hadn't fired a single shot.

In that split second, Mal weighed his odds. Made a choice.

Eyes focusing on the doorway, he called out, "Silver is hot this February—"

Nate rounded the corner with the confidence of a predator in ambush, gun trained in Pitch’s direction. He got off a shot, but misaimed; Nate’s bullet struck true.

Pitch crumbled to the ground by the time Jailbird could comprehend what had happened. She let out a strangled cry, more horror than grief as she veritably cowered behind Mal.

And Nate… Nate was a strigoi. The left arm of his coat was shredded through, the shape of a vicious bite oozing beneath. His right calf suffered its own abuse; both feet tracked vivid footprints into the room behind him. And a smearing of blood drenched his hair, down his ear, his throat, his shoulder - splattered over a purpling jaw. Maybe his, maybe the ichor of another. Grey-blue eyes pale and wide with undead cunning took in the rest of the room over the span of a heartbeat, and he flicked his rifle in Marquee’s direction.

Mal's eyes went wide at the sight of Nate. At the blood and gore slicking his body. His injuries. The cold, savage violence howling behind his eyes. 

" _Nate—_ " One word, weighed down by a multitude of conflicting emotions.

The pistol clattered from Marquee's fingers a fraction of a second later, one foot kicking it away towards the center of the room as he raised shaking hands in unmistakable surrender.

"I give up—I give up! P-please..." The rest dissolved into a series of hiccuping sobs as Marquee curled into a pitiful ball at the corner of the room.

Fear and warning laced Mal's words as he tried to pull Nate's attention away from Marquee and towards himself, "Nate, stop! _Don't_."

He stopped. Not with any real intent toward mercy. But Nate turned to Mal, took in the ruin of his nose, the mottled bruises. Flit his gaze to the _knife_. 

Palpable rage thickened in the air between them. 

Jailbird seemed to be doing good to keep her feet under her, the way she clung to Mal. “Don’t even - think about it.” She threatened, looking very small behind her hostage. “I’ll slit his throat. ‘M not joking.”

“If you hurt him again, I'll hack off every oversized piece of you, from your ears to your toes, shove 'em down your throat, and then gut you to pull them out again. Understand?”

And this was _Nate_ speaking, but he sounded like he meant it. Much more than Jailbird meant hers. She swallowed, fingers sweaty against the blade.

_“Let him go.”_

Deprived of alternatives, she hesitated only a moment before lowering the knife. “How do I know you won’t just shoot me afterward?”

“You don’t.” And the sharp lines of his glare invited no negotiation.

Another pause. Jailbird’s grip loosened on Mal, weighing odds with time she didn’t have to spare. The last of her defiance faltered in an unsteady exhale, releasing him. “Pitch had the key.” She croaked, still hovering behind Mal.

As soon as she let go, Mal's shoulders slumped, like Jailbird had been most of what was keeping him upright. More than anything else, Mal wanted to hold Nate, make sure he was okay, make sure he was _real_. That the damage wasn't too deep.

That Mal hadn't broken things beyond repair.

But not now. Later. When they were safe, and alone, and all of this was behind them.

Keeping his eyes on Nate, Mal forced aside everything else. Pain, exhaustion, relief, fear, anger, concern—all secondary. All irrelevant right now.

Mal picked his way across the floor towards Nate. Took a halting breath and stopped, making sure to keep his own body between Nate and Jailbird, prepared to intervene if needed. Nate still lowered at her, the scales not quite tipped either way. 

"C'mon," Mal said. The toll of the past three days was finally catching up to him, and he swayed a little on his feet. "Let's—let's just go. They're done—it's done."

Still blocking Nate's line of sight, Mal looked him in the eye and swallowed thickly against a surge of emotion and the taste of his own blood. "I don't want you to hurt them. I just...I just want to leave."

Nate didn’t answer aloud as he took in Mal’s face. His plea fumbled through the haze of blood ringing in Nate’s ears, floating there in stark contrast to the havoc around them.

_Mal._

Some part of Nate fractured. Just a flicker. A barest shift of light to reveal the gaping wound beneath the madness, as he struggled for understanding. For some way of adding sense to the scene they inhabited now.

He’d almost lost Mal once. Nate wouldn’t let it happen _now,_ close enough to reach out and touch, with their enemies only a few feet away. If he didn’t kill them here, they might follow. Might do this again, and worse.

_But Mal._

He swayed, like a breath of air might topple him. And the urge to sweep him up, away from all this, won out.

Rifle still in-hand, keeping a close watch on the two remaining raiders, Nate stepped to the side to search Pitch. There weren’t many pockets to check.

Jailbird crept back to the corner of the room, wary and blabbering as the uncertainty stretched out too long, “I won’t cause any trouble, alright? I was just following orders, it wasn’t personal. Live and let live, right? You Minutemen do that - Ro-General?”

He silenced her with a glare. There was no ‘General’ here, only an entity of wrath held at bay by Mal’s intervention. And even that thread frayed when Nate rose to unbind the cuffs, and found the vacant joint where a finger should have been.

Another heavy quiet, each second an eternity and an epoch. Nate’s hands were careful of the wound. The venom in his words as he murmured, “ _Mal…_ ”, betrayed what a fragile self-restraint the effort was.

Mal flinched before he could catch himself, like _he_ was the one facing Nate's judgement instead. As soon as the cuffs were off, he pulled his left hand close, cradling it protectively against his chest. Tiredness and the hollow carved out by fading adrenaline left Mal woozy and off kilter. He turned back to Nate.

He stood stiff, as if keeping his attention on Mal and not the others required considerable force of will.

"Don't," Mal said. Half plea, half command. He gave the faintest shake of his head. "They're not worth it. Let's just...go. Nate, _please_." 

Still destructive impulse resisted. Nate flicked his eyes toward the back of the room followed by the faint turn of his head, breath held beside Mal.

Frustration and worry he couldn't quite hide bubbled up again, and Mal looked to the doorway with something approaching longing.

God, he was tired. And Nate was still standing there, looking like the demon out these raiders' worst nightmares, dripping blood all over the floor. Mal was reaching the dregs of his patience. His head gave another sharp throb and he winced, closing his eyes for a second against even the dim light of the room.

"Look, if—if we don't leave now you're gonna be...carrying me back. I'm not—I'm not joking."

Finally Nate exhaled, though the tension remained. Mal’s urgency would win out - as always, without question or consideration for the cost. What mattered now was getting him out of this place.

Pressing close, Nate reached an arm out to support Mal’s waist in case of a fall - by now looking like a very real possibility. “If I see either of you again, I’ll kill you.” Nate relayed flatly, firearm still clutched in his other hand. Then leaned gently against Mal in a nudge towards the door.

Mal went along without protest, reaching out to Nate to offer support back as much as to take it. It wasn't until the basement room was out of sight that Mal spoke again. 

"...Thanks," he murmured. Mal struggled to find something suitable to say beyond that, any way to wrap words around the thoughts buzzing in his mind, and kept coming up short.

Maybe there _weren't_ any for this kind of thing.

As they laboured up the crumbling stairway, Nate couldn’t seem to form an answer - voice stolen away by their imperative escape-in-progress. But the hand helping to hold Mal up pulled him a little closer by way of response.

By the time they hit the main floor of the factory, Mal had slipped back into his own thoughts. 

Then they stepped into the open and he caught sight of the carnage strewn around them and was yanked bodily back to the present. Mal hesitated, a half-stumbling first step prompted more by pain and exhaustion than true shock, but no one would have faulted him if it’d been the latter. 

Blood and viscera painted across concrete and glistened in the dusty rays of light filtering through the high factory windows. The rest of Slugs’ crew, and her dogs, and—though there was hardly enough of her face left for forensic identification—Slugs herself. Crumpled like discarded toys and splattered across the floors, and the walls, and the rusted, hulking machinery.

It was, objectively, a horrific sight.

Mal should've felt bad about it. 

He didn’t.

Grim satisfaction was the softest thing he had to offer as they wove a path through the dead. He could’ve justified it—called it righteous, or deserved, or some kind of closure—but the truth was Mal wasn’t an impartial witness. He was biased. And the ugly, twisted thing living in the deep-down spaces he often tried to ignore _approved_ of this.

It felt good, knowing they'd died like dogs. Mal hoped Slugs suffered, and only a small piece of himself entertained the idea that he _shouldn’t_ want that in the first place.

Mal's only real moral consideration here was for Nate.

Because this _wasn't_ like Nate; this was like _Mal_.

Mal got even. He did ruthless, godawful things because sometimes they had to be done, and if people like Nate couldn't—or wouldn't—get their hands dirty, then he could wield that knife for them.

_But Nate..._

Maybe Nate didn't feel anything now. Maybe it even felt good to him too, in the moment. And, hell, maybe this really _was_ justice, when it came down to it. Mal had never been a good judge of that kind of thing, and he'd long accepted his place inhabiting the muddy grey area between the world of truly bad men, and ones like Nate.

A somber weight settled on Mal's shoulders then, as another, more devastating thought occurred: if Nate regretted this, would he regret _Mal_? Would he regret saving someone who would have done what Nate did here and _enjoyed_ it?

What happened when Nate finally realized the person he kept putting so much faith in was everything Nate saw wrong in the world.

Mal stopped thinking for a while, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be wrapping up the combat scene soon, and moving into the hurt/comfort part of the story (and the misunderstandings //gasp)!
> 
> Check us out on tumblr for more Mal and Nate content! [Fyris](https://saltsealed.tumblr.com/tagged/salt%20ocs) | [GooseWhiskers](https://lookbluesoup.tumblr.com/tagged/silver-linings)


	5. Intervention

They made it into the open; by now night was falling fast over the bleak landscape. And that would mean entirely new dangers to account for on the long trek back to the Castle. If Nate had given any time to consideration of a plan, he might have brought more supplies - or had an exit strategy more comprehensive than shooting the place down to the last man. But then he might have been too late.

Either way, limping back in this state was out of the question. They’d have to find somewhere to barricade and clean their wounds as best they could to wait out the dark. And then...

Nate could feel static pressing at his consciousness. Trying to focus on anything other than the immediate was too much altogether. Not yet. He couldn’t rest yet. Not until Mal was safe, for certain, beyond a doubt. “I’ve got a perch two blocks away with a couple stims. Can you make it that far?” 

Nodding, Mal swept his gaze across the horizon. At the rapidly darkening sky. 

Nate was right; trying to walk back in the dark wasn't an option. Finding somewhere safe to hole up for the night was their best bet at this point.

"Yeah," he said. “Let’s go.”

Nate allowed himself to look briefly at Mal, though it meant turning attention away from the potential dangers of their surroundings. The familiar lines of his face were crooked, discolored, sticky with gore. Another sick wave of fury twisted in Nate’s gut. But without a foe to direct towards, it caved inward. Collapsed.

Three days at their mercy, and no one had come for Mal. It may as well have been an eternity. Had he hoped at all for a rescue? Worse injuries than the obvious ones might’ve been inflicted in that time. Who knew what would be waiting for them when they finally found a safe place to rest. 

“Sorry it took me so long.” Which wasn’t enough. He could’ve - _should’ve -_ stopped it before it ever happened. If he’d been wiser, extra patrols along the route would have caught Slugs. But he misjudged the scope of her cunning until too late. And Mal paid the price.

Mal gave the faintest shake of his head and pressed closer to Nate, hoping to offer him some reassurance even though Mal couldn't quite find the words to answer.

Nate leaned gently back in reply, instinctive and instant. Even now the deep wound of fear cut through his senses, as if it couldn’t comprehend yet that they were reunited. He needed to be _sure._ Wanted badly to hold Mal close, breathe him in, and _know_ this was real. 

_Not yet._

Once they were safe.

_Safe, safe, safe..._ What good was ‘safe’ without being sure. Adrenaline close to spent, Nate’s injuries began to protest their strain. His arm resisted even the faintest motion, and his limp grew stiff along the way. There was no way of concealing either. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the singularity of purpose that had sustained him up to this point, and kept walking. 

By the time they reached the edge of the yard Nate’s ears were ringing too loud to parse much of anything else. The world began to sway. _Keep walking._

“General!” A voice called out from the void.

At first Nate thought he’d imagined it. Paused, squinted up in the vague direction of the sound.

Footsteps, hurried, echoed over broken concrete. Nate’s instinct was to raise his rifle in preparation for some new horror.

“Thank God, we found you.” A scout rushed forward from across the street, “I was scoping the perimeter, saw the bodies, and,” She gaped as she got closer, awash with alarm at the look of both men. “We have a medic on standby i-”

“Who’s - orders are you here on?” Nate interrupted, slurred but still managing the sharp pitch of command.

She blinked. “Preston Garvey’s, Sir. He’s here too.”

Nate exhaled, head drooping with relief. 

“The block up ahead is clear.” The scout reported, “If you can sit tight, I’ll have the others here in ten minutes.”

Letting go of a tense breath, Mal nodded at the scout, the sudden wash of sheer relief that followed the realization drowning out everything else. In one of the following moments after the scout dashed off again, Mal gave Nate a gentle nudge towards the factory wall, where an area of dirt and scrubby grass reclaimed that part of the courtyard.

After making sure neither of them was going to fall, Mal sank down, back to the wall beside Nate, knees drawn up to his chest. Darkness was already overtaking the yard, the last minutes of daylight fading into the blues and purples of night. A scattering of stars glittered in the eastern sky. Even the summer breeze was mild.

If not for the context, it would’ve been a nice evening. Perfect for a picnic or—

Mal frowned. A thought nagged at the back of his mind. It took longer than usual to grab hold of it, and when he finally did he let out a wet laugh, irreverently out of place for the situation.

Nate’s head swayed upward, searching blearily for the reasoning behind the sound.

“You know I’m—I’m all for surprise parties but…” Mal cleared his throat and tipped his head back to rest gently against the sun-warmed brick. A sardonic grin tugged at his lips, despite the increasing slur to his words, “Maybe…next year I’ll go in for something— _mmn,_ a little more— _lowkey._ ”

It took a moment for Nate to process the joke. 

Strong emotion bubbled in his throat. Not amusement. He drooped into the surge, temple shored against Mal's shoulder, and stared blankly at the dirt just in front of them. Tears were not within reach, but the corners of Nate's eyes burned as a heavy pang echoed through his weary body.

Some of the delirious humor faded as Nate wilted against his side. Mal glanced over. Without seeing Nate’s face, his expression was impossible to gauge, but the change was enough to have worry curling in the pit of Mal's stomach.

_I thought I lost you._ Over and over, like a faltering heartbeat, Nate’s muted terror throbbed.

He exhaled unsteadily. Squinted his eyes shut against the flood. But here was Mal, finding it in him to smile even now. There was some relief in that. “... Yeah.”

Smile slipping into more of a grimace, Mal sighed. 

Everything hurt. He was exhausted, and filthy, and even with the rescue party here, neither of them were really out of the woods yet. But...

Nate was _here_.

Tucked against Mal's side, alive and breathing and against all odds had managed to pull both their asses out of the fire. Humor and tearful reunion hugs were too much to ask for right now, Mal knew, but the alternative meant lingering in the same dark, hopeless place he’d been trapped for the past three days.

Shifting so he could lean his own head against the top of Nate’s, mindful of both their injuries, Mal said, “‘M sorry—that…that wasn’t funny. I’m just—glad you’re here.”

Nate swallowed, lip tugging. “...It was a little funny.” He croaked, “Your timing is just shit.” 

Mal _almost_ snorted before he caught himself. The result was an ugly, wheezing sound that struck him as almost funnier than Nate's actual comment.

Shifting, he peered up with wide, worried eyes.

"The absolute worst," Mal agreed.

* * *

Preston made it back in seven minutes, dragging what might be half the Castle garrison with him. Nate pushed himself to unsteady feet at their arrival, a hand lingering without pressure against Mal’s shoulder on the way up.

They moved in a coordinated pattern to secure the area, a cohesion testament to Nate’s rigorous drill orders. The medic followed close behind Preston, who saluted. “General.”

“Garvey.” Nate managed, finding it hard to reclaim the decorum that came so naturally at other times. “I think - I ordered you to stay put.”

“Apologies for the insurrection, Sir.” Preston answered with a faint grin.

“Apology accepted.”

The medic and an assistant carrying an oversized bag knelt beside Mal without waiting for an invitation. “Didn’t know what shape you’d be in.” Preston explained, nodding to them, “Thought you might benefit from some supplies.”

Eyeing the medic and looking somewhat more alert, Mal nodded at Nate. "Nate...first. Don't let him run around and...'I'm fine' you 'til he bleeds to death." 

Mal flicked his gaze towards Nate, prepared to be stubborn if necessary.

He straightened, a little unsteadily, and met Mal’s eye with bewildered vexation. “ _Uh-unh._ I’ll live long enough - for them to see you. You’re -” Nate swallowed. It was hard to choose the right words with his mind in such a fray. He stumbled through a half-dozen arguments in his mind that he knew would be ineffective. Which was about as much energy as he had left to spare. This couldn’t be dragged out. Because Mal was hurt, and Nate didn’t know how bad yet, and, “... You’re - only gonna worry me if y’put this off.” He admitted, a little feebly.

Mal bristled at Nate’s initial statement. They didn’t have the time, and he didn’t have the energy to drag this out into an extended argument. One they’d already had dozens of times before in different contexts.

“I can't...fucking beleive this," Mal said, worry overtaking frustration as he went on, "You're gonna stand there and ask me to watch you bleed to death because you’re...t-too goddamn stubborn to follow triage protocol.”

Nate gaped to argue, but bit it back - glancing at the medic as if they might provide their own reassurances and settle the matter. No luck. The medic was trying very hard not to make eye contact with _either_ of them. Preston suddenly seemed preoccupied with checking on the security of the perimeter.

Mal drew in a shaky breath, already on the edge of losing steam. Even unrelenting bullheadedness could only carry him so far. “At least…let them check the bites. I’m not even bleeding anymore—a broken nose and some fingers aren’t gonna kill me. Promise.”

But how could they be sure. “Mal…” Nate entreated, kneeling down - half to keep from falling. No gratification lay in arguing. Strain wasn’t helping either of them. He dropped the last few inches to his knees, only then searching for a gaze to meet. Nate’s voice fractured with nerves, “...I _just_ got you _back._ ” And the fear Mal might be snatched away again at the last moment, over a lapse in caution, didn’t remotely sit right.

A too-long pause.

Shoulders slumping, Mal let out a sigh that some might’ve considered petulant, and mumbled, “…Will you sit with me, then? Call it—call it a compromise.”

The tactic was partly a ploy to keep Nate close for the medic’s sake—but a not insignificant piece of Mal just _wanted_ Nate there. Mal reached for Nate, hoping to take his hand. “They can look at you next just—” _Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Stay, please_.

He understood. Nate’s grimace softened. Since he wanted to be nowhere more urgently than by Mal’s side. Especially now. It was an easy compromise to make. “Sure.”

Wrapping their fingers together, Nate sidled as close as he could without interrupting the medic’s work, favoring his wounded leg. The savagery of the fight before was already beginning to feel distant, like something remembered as a dream. He found he couldn’t quite recall when each injury occurred. Parts of him were hurting he hadn’t known were even wounded until now. Too much had been a blur of contempt and steel.

Reassured Nate was staying, Mal let the medic work in peace. He took them up on their preemptive offer of med-x, then conceded to drifting off somewhere hazy and numb. By the time they began pulling and manipulating the bones in his fingers back into their proper places, the pain had shrunk to something manageable.

Unable to put his own mind at ease, Nate focused on Mal and making sure the work being done was thorough. After a moment, guilt for causing him any additional distress won out, “I’ll go ahead and - take one of those stims.”

Mal hummed, tossing out what he thought was a helpful addition, “Mm, Nate you should…have some med-x too—it’s—it’s the _real_ good shit. Only the best for...the General, right?” 

The grin Mal offered to sell the point was meant to be encouraging, but probably landed closer to ‘woozy as fuck’.

_Oh well._

Nate gave Mal’s good hand a squeeze, smile strained as splints were applied to the broken fingers. At least he wouldn’t be in significant pain on the way back. But the reality of their situation was sinking its claws deep. The only reason Mal had been punished like this was for his friendship.

This was Nate’s fault. 

Again the impulsive urge to bury him in an embrace twisted through Nate, as if something so simple could erase the horrors of the past few days and the marks that would be left behind. But it would be selfish to linger in dread for his own sake. Mal was holding up for now. 

“I think you’re going to enjoy it more than me.” Nate managed. The humor was a bit forced, but there was no irritation in his voice. He had absolutely no intention of dulling his senses until they were behind 6 feet of stone, with guards at each door and a patrol sweeping every building within a thousand meters of the Castle.

The assistant came forward with a stim, reaching for Nate’s bitten arm to apply it where the bleeding was worst. Which he quickly realized would entail forcing him to let go of Mal. Nate waved the effort away. “Let me.” 

They glanced to the right uncertainly, only for the medic to roll their eyes and continue tending Mal. Reluctantly the stim was passed over.

Nate wasted no time applying it himself, lip quirking only faintly over the bite of the needle. Compared to the rest of his aches, it left little impression. “You seeing pink seagulls yet?” He scoffed, looking back to Mal.

“Mm—just a couple elephants. Think—I might need to wait a few more minutes for the… gulls.” Truthfully, most of Mal’s loopiness was from simple lack of sleep. A couple of restless hours managed over the course of three incredibly taxing days. Probably a miracle he was awake at all. Now, with the med-x dulling the sharp edges of both the pain and his thoughts, Mal slipped closer and closer to something like real sleep.

He fought it for Nate’s sake, repositioning and fidgeting in a vain attempt to keep himself alert. His continued movements did little to endear him to the medic, who shot Mal increasingly annoyed looks as his restlessness interfered with their attempts to assess the damage to his face.

Nate finally intervened. “Would you - just lean on me and hold - still?” He asked, shifting his grip in their handhold to press a thumb over Mal’s pulse.

"...Sorry," he mumbled. Mal didn't bother to argue though. Just shifted one last time to do as Nate asked, then tried his best to hold still. "I'm just...um. How much longer is...this gonna take?"

Entwining their fingers again, Nate exhaled. “Five more minutes.”

Mal sighed. “ _Mmg_ —fine." 

“Longer every time you squirm.” The medic finally threw in, exasperated. “Do you _want_ a crooked nose?”

"Dunno—it might...add to my roguish charm."

They inhaled. But Nate’s admonitory scowl silenced further criticism. “You can sleep.” He assured after a handful of seconds, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

The answer didn't make Mal _happy_ , but left without better options, he resigned himself to accepting it. At least he trusted Nate to be truthful about this. If Nate said he wouldn’t leave, he wouldn’t. 

Mal hummed and gave Nate’s hand another squeeze by way of reply.

As predicted, not even halfway into that time and Mal drifted into a light doze.

“How’s it look?” Nate asked quietly when the medic finally leaned back. 

They rubbed their hands off on a worn towel, sighing. “We’ll need to get the swelling down before trying to reset the nose. Stims will have to wait until afterwards, or it really _will_ be crooked. Maybe a cracked rib. A few ugly bruises. His fingers are in - bad shape. But they’ll mend.” Meeting the General’s gaze, they added more emphatically, “ _He’ll_ mend. Sir.”

Nate nodded. Emotional vertigo left him unsure how to really feel about the news. Even now, part of him resisted the danger of accepting good news. But relief finally took precedence over fear. “Thank you.”

“Yes sir.” Another quiet moment passed before the medic shifted. Time for Nate to suck it up and let them look him over.

“My arm’s the worst off.” He reported. “There’s the leg, too. The bite and - think I might have broken a toe. Shotgun ruined my shirt, but it was too far away to cause serious damage.”

They checked behind him, of course. Apparently Mal wasn’t the only one who refused to take Nate at his word. Maybe that was well-deserved skepticism. Graciously - or resignedly - they cleaned, splinted, and wrapped all the injuries save the arm to avoid disturbing Mal as long as possible.

Preston had returned by that point, a few others behind him trailing makeshift litters. 

A gentle nudge pulled Mal from sleep. 

“ _Mmg_ —?" He blinked, struggling to orient himself. Then realized Nate was still beside him. The medic too. And...Preston and some others.

Squinting at Nate, Mal labored to pull together a coherent thought. Kept struggling for the next few seconds before managing a raspy, "...What?"

“Sorry,” Nate answered, “Need my arm back. Just for a minute.” He hadn’t let go yet, though.

It took longer than it should've to process what Nate said, and even then Mal had to look down and check— _yep, they were still holding hands_ —before it really sank in. Nodding, Mal detangled his hand from Nate's with no small amount of reluctance. 

Despite the warmth of the summer evening, the emptiness of space where they had been touching a moment before felt cold. Another onslaught of anxiety fluttered in Nate’s chest, as if letting go might mean Mal’s slipping away out of reach.

Preston’s brows pinched faintly. 

Before long night had fallen in earnest. The last of Nate’s visible wounds were treated by lantern light, and distant beasts howled from inside the city. A group of this size would be able to fend off most threats. But you could never assume a safe journey through Boston. Blood would draw opportunistic hunters. 

“We should move out as soon as your arm’s squared, General.” Preston advised against an eerie glow from his charged musket. “Do you need help getting to the litter?”

Looking in the direction of the carriers, Nate grimaced. Two litters meant _at least_ two carriers, plus himself, with limited maneuverability when every gun mattered. With the stim and a wrap applied, his leg hurt significantly less and held little risk of bleeding. It wouldn’t be responsible to-

Anticipating his resitance, Mal shot Nate a scathing look and shook his head as if to say, _don’t even fucking think about it._

Nate’s original grimace tugged into a slightly different, no less familiar grimace. It wouldn’t be responsible to… give Mal another reason to worry _…_ There had been enough of that today. 

These were some of the best troops in the garrison, and Nate could trust them with the journey home. Deliberately, he’d choose to. “...I can get to it.” He acquiesced.

Content with that, Mal allowed himself to be helped over to one of the litters. Most everything else going on around him—whatever Preston said, the movements of the other Minutemen, the distant screams of things deeper in the city ruins—all drifted into the background.

By the time Mal settled down on the litter he was all but nodding off again, and only clinging to consciousness out of sheer determination to make sure Nate was situated first. Even through the haze of exhaustion and painkillers, Mal's eyes were sharp as they tracked Nate's movements.

He did his best not to show the limp, as much for his own sake as the onlookers. Nate was the General, here. A living legend who couldn’t be killed, stopped, or conquered. He had to look the part. But it wouldn’t fool Mal. It never did. 

Once they were both situated, Preston signalled and the Minutemen fell into rank. 

“Take us home, Garvey.” Nate ordered with a skewed grin. He and Mal were lifted up, surrounded, and ferried away into the dark. 

The march back was painfully slow. Clouds obscured the moon, so lanterns lit the way. Every once in a while eyes glimmered back. Before long Nate had commandeered himself a sidearm to at least maintain the illusion of usefulness from where he lay. Mal’s faint snoring reached past the ringing in Nate’s ears. Another reason to stay alert. 

He could only imagine how brutal Slugs must’ve been. Knowing her cruelty would leave permanent marks stirred futile hostility even now, even after she was dead. But in the wake of the attack, anger was a fading outlet, lacking adequate fuel. Nate felt increasingly gutted with each aftershock. 

If not for Preston, Nate and Mal would be squirrelled away in some bolthole without proper medicine, food, water. They would’ve faced a perilous night far too close to the carnage, and a walk back equally unsafe. 

There’d been no time to strategize with Mal’s life on the line. Nate had been swift and violent, blind to all but the most immediate need. Now he was beginning to wonder whether that would’ve killed them both in the end. 

It was too cold for July.

Shifting bricks down the adjacent alley brought Nate’s gun upright. But mercifully, nothing more challenged them along the way. 


	6. Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a few days late! Life got hectic and time slipped by so fast!

A second entourage was waiting at the gate, and Nate wondered if any of the garrison was sleeping at all as they flocked to oggle or express relief. The infirmary was already on standby.

Mal woke to a _literal_ crowd of people. Staring, chattering, giving or taking orders. A hodgepodge of controlled chaos that centered around Nate and him like they were the eye of a hurricane. That, more than anything, pulled Mal firmly back to wakefulness.

And, once more a part of the land of the living, Mal also found himself part of the land of the supremely fucking irritated.

It was hard not to feel like a specimen under glass with so many eyes gawking at them, out of concern, awe, or simple curiosity. Mal found his tolerance for their presence dropping, with his own nerves fraying and tiredness still weighing at him.

But, Mal reminded himself, this was _Nate’s_ family—his people. They needed to see their General was alive and (mostly) well as much as Nate needed them to be there.

So Mal held his tongue at the passing chatter and scrutiny that flew over his head. Stayed quiet. _Behaved._

By the time they were ushered into the infirmary, a majority of the onlookers had been shooed away, and only essential personnel remained. It offered enough elbow room for Mal to relax a fraction. 

And then a fraction more, and then again, until it felt like something inside him was crumbling. The last of the fear and tension he’d been holding onto collapsed into itself, like a sigh he felt through his entire body. He stood, shivering, and wrapped his good arm around his chest tighter.

They made it; they were safe.

They were—

 _“Hey.”_ Nate’s voice was gentle with concern, a similar exhaustion coloring the words. He sat upright. And then stood, slowly, carefully. To make his way toward Mal. But behind a guarded door and weathered stone, there was no more reason for bravado. No need for a mask. Or a General. He met Mal’s gaze and for the first time since all this had happened, didn’t try to hide the hurt. 

It wasn’t uncommon for wounds to weep in earnest at the end of a conflict. Tension holding muscles taut would finally surrender and let the grievance show. Nate had learned that a long time ago, in a life long past, and never forgotten. Real bleeding didn’t always start at point of impact. 

Reaching out, he was tentative only long enough to test his hand on Mal’s shoulder. Then all but fell against him, fingers coiling soft and desperate to the back of his shirt and the base of his hair. 

It still seemed strange that relief could be paired with such an immense outpouring of agony in Nate’s heart. But Mal was here. And _they were safe._ At least for tonight, even if they were fraying at the seams - they’d be okay. The battle was over.

Nate loosed a staggered breath, weak with a shudder. Hot tears bled against the crook of Mal’s neck.

Mal wanted this. _Had_ wanted this, for what felt like a lifetime.

But he hadn’t realized how much it would hurt, and what unseen defenses would topple as Nate curled into him, pressed his face to the side of Mal’s neck, hands clutching him like Mal might be snatched away again at any second.

Like this was the last chance they'd get.

Mal went stiff and still for a heartbeat; then he melted into Nate's embrace, his unbroken fingers curling into the back of Nate's still-damp shirt. Bowing his head, Mal leaned against him. Tilted his face to bury it in Nate's hair. Mal's eyes burned, but the anticipated flood of tears didn't come.

He thought he'd lost Nate. Thought Nate was going to die—that _both_ of them were going to die, back there at Slugs’ hands. Now that the terrors of the past three days were behind them, the sudden presence of hope and relief was just as overwhelming as the dread of anticipation had been.

“I-I’m sorry,” Mal breathed, voice cracking.

He _was_ sorry. For letting his own stupidity put them both in this situation in the first place. For not playing it smart like Nate would have in his place, for letting his own impulsive anger and stubbornness escalate things. Mal’s injuries were trivial in the face of everything, but he knew each mark twisted deep for Nate.

In the end, Nate still suffered the worst of it.

Mal repeated the halting statement twice more before even words slipped out of reach, and he settled for clinging to Nate like a lifeline.

After everything, it was good to be held. To hold Nate. To have him back, warm, and safe, and _alive_.

That was enough. 

_Nate_ was—and always would be—enough.

He was quiet for a long time, voice lost against Mal’s closeness. Wondered how Mal could even _think_ he had a single thing to apologize for. The guilt in his voice hurt almost as much as the rest of it combined.

Still unable to speak, Nate’s hand feathered gently through Mal’s hair, hoping to relay some of the comfort he deserved. Tangled and oily, it was badly in need of brushing. The untimely observation struck Nate, who huffed through his nose and shifted to rest his chin over Mal’s shoulder. Not enough to really laugh, still enough to feel absurd. 

Mal let out a content hum and had to fight the impulse to lean into the contact. It’d been so long since anyone had touched him like that _at all_ , but the contrast was even more striking against the backdrop of the past few days.

Shutting his eyes, Nate swallowed over the words he _wanted_ to say. “It’s alright,” He managed meekly instead. “We’re alright.” 

Nate’s reassurance didn’t completely ease the guilt, but it was comfort enough for the moment. Enough that Mal could rest.

“…I know,” he said eventually, voice still hoarse and quiet.

Like so many other things, Mal supposed he'd just have to take this on faith too.

After a while, Nate shifted slowly back to look Mal in the eyes, fingers still wrapped in his hair. Wondered if he understood just how much he mattered to Nate. How much Nate would’ve been willing to give to keep them safe. 

In truth tonight frightened him for a number of reasons, and one of those was the sheer cliff his senses had flung themselves from the moment Mal was in danger. Without _thought._ Without _hesitation._ Into an abyss where no price was too steep.

Because it had occurred to Nate, in passing, melancholy moments, that he might be falling for Mal. Nate always pushed it away. Never let himself wonder too long. Now he realized the ground had already risen up to meet him. 

He couldn’t make that confession. Not here. Maybe not ever. Hardly had the senses to absorb it. But though the thought they might’ve lost each other was still overwhelming to bear… as long as they were here, together, he could shoulder it.

If it hadn’t been for the tenderness present in the way Nate held him, and how reluctant he seemed to be to let go, Mal might’ve worried something was wrong, with the way the eye contact stretched on.

But before Mal could pull together the lucidity to formulate a proper question, or even really _process_ what was going on with Nate, the doctor intervened. Startling as she cleared her throat loudly, Mal glanced over at her and the team of assistants.

Mal had almost forgotten there were other people in the room. Waiting for them.

Watching them.

“Oh— _uhm_ …” Mal let his gaze flit back to Nate, unsure. 

Nate seemed hesitant, but loosened his hold and shifted back on one heel.

Reluctantly, Mal finally dropped his hand back to his side. “We should…probably—”

“Yeah.”

The sudden shift to reality brought with it other minor revelations too. Mal had no way of knowing how long the trip to the Castle had taken, but judging by the ugly aches flaring back up across his body, it was long enough for the painkillers to start wearing off. On top of that, he was still tired, and dirty, and hungry, and really, _really_ ready for something to drink.

The last item on the list finally prompted Mal to speak up, rather than waiting for Nate to take the lead. He looked over at the waiting team, unsure who he should make the request to.

“ _Uhm_ —can…can I get some water or—something?” 

The doctor smiled lightly. “You can have a little if your throat is dry. But we’re going to set up an IV for you here with some antibiotics.” They motioned toward a gurney, then stepped forward to help him to it. “I promise it will help.”

Mal sighed. “Right…”

One of the assistants approached Nate in turn. “You too, General.” 

He grimaced. But didn’t argue. Only waited to make sure Mal wasn’t having any trouble with the doctor’s help before following after the assistant’s firm tug.

Mal took the doctor’s arm and let her steady him on the walk over. He probably could’ve managed without help, but all things considered, it seemed like a stupid thing to argue at this point.

The more agreeable he was, the faster this would be over.

_Hopefully._

After reaching the gurney, Mal hesitated just long enough to glance down at himself. Frowning at the dried blood stiffening his clothes and flaking off his skin, he wondered if that was going to be a problem.

“Um…” He turned towards the doctor. “Should I—?”

“It’ll all have to come off anyway.” She replied. “It’s up to you if you’d like them off now or have them cut off later -” Blinking at a thought, she looked over her shoulder and snapped her fingers at an assistant to beckon, “Bring a blanket over, would you? And some water. Not too much.”

He hurried to oblige.

While the assistant scurried off, Mal got to work fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He managed fine without help, even one handed, and wiggled out of the ruined garment, dropping it to the floor and kicking it carelessly out of the way.

Nate was already unbuttoning his shirt. He paused, grim, for a few seconds - before finally slicking the tattered outfit to the floor. The reason for his hesitation quickly became clear. Angry red peppered across his side and up his torso, radiating from the edges of a wrap that was stained slightly pink near the center. Other unconcealed bruises were well formed by now, reds and purples displaying a mosaic of strife.

Mal sat back against the gurney and had just started picking at his shoelaces when he noticed Nate. He stopped, letting his leg settle back on the ground. Stared openly at the violent marks littering Nate’s body. Even with the worst of the damage obscured under bloody bandages there was no hiding it.

A familiar fury rolled over Mal, but with the source of his wrath now dead and gone he was left with nowhere to safely vent it.

Looking down again, Mal willed himself to focus on his own task. With more force than necessary he undid his shoes, pulled them off, and tossed them against the nearby wall with a dull _thump_ , pointedly ignoring the looks from several of the others in the room. Even Nate, who had gone still.

It was stupid and petulant and childish, but with no one here he could safely provoke, no fights to pick, nothing to _do_ , the only target left was himself, which Nate had rendered similarly unacceptable.

After peeling off his socks and slinging them the same direction, the manic energy of the moment drained away almost as quickly as it'd come, his body and mind too tired to sustain anything that extreme for long. Exhaling roughly, Mal reached up and shoved a hand through his hair, combing the sweaty, filthy tangle back off his face.

"Sorry," he mumbled, to no one in particular. Shoulders hunching inward, still half dressed, Mal rested against the edge of the gurney for a long, silent moment.

“... Don’t be.” Nate chewed his lip, regret too light a sentiment to describe how badly he wished he’d pursued his initial impulse, and waited to be treated until Mal was asleep again or out of sight. It would’ve been an easier injury to bear, surely.

Not that he would’ve kept it hidden forever. By now Nate knew better than to try. But tonight - after everything - Mal didn’t need something else to anguish over. Least of all Nate’s rashness. He hadn’t cared in the moment how severe the wounds were. Now in the aftermath, they mattered more. He’d known the anger would come, just would’ve preferred to delay the sting of it a little longer for Mal’s sake. 

Letting a hand brush over the wrap, Nate swallowed quietly, “We can talk about it later, I promise. For now let’s just - get patched up. Take this one step at a time. Okay?”

Mal offered Nate a compliant nod, not quite trusting himself to speak yet. The anger might've burned itself out, but there were still too many ugly, venomous things lurking under his tongue, just waiting for him to give the inch of slack they needed to strike.

Nate was right. And he deserved better than Mal’s petty tantrums and pity parties about things they couldn’t change. Particularly tonight, when they were both too tired and strung out to get into it.

With a frustrated grunt, Mal dropped his hand back to his lap and worried at the hem of his undershirt.

“Yeah,” he agreed tiredly, “...One step at a time."

It was hard to watch, and a not insignificant part of Nate felt guilty for asking Mal to push his frustration back, now that they were finally here behind secure walls. Nate didn’t want his silence or censorship. 

But they had to tend corporeal wounds first. 

More than that, three days of fear and sleeplessness were now refusing to be belayed any longer. Nate could not work up the strength to discern what needed to be said, even if Mal was in a place to hear it. All Nate really wanted, now, was to hold him again and promise it would all be okay, until they both believed it. That would have to wait, too.

Mal went back to undressing then, tugging the shirt over his head, and spending a few frustrated moments wrestling with the buttons on his pants. That done, he maneuvered the last of his clothes off and kicked them to the side with the rest of his things.

For the first time then, he got a look at the damage previously hidden by his clothes. Most of the marks Mal didn't even remember getting, though the nastiest bruises were clearly the oldest, already slipping into shades of blue and mottled green.

He splayed a hand over a fist sized one curving around the right side of his waist, let his fingers brush over it feather-light. It didn't hurt. But maybe that was still the lingering effects of the painkillers.

Sighing and dismissing the thought, Mal turned back to the doctor. "I could ah, also use a smoke," he said, glancing over at them hopefully. "If that's something the _good doctor_ will allow?"

“Sorry. The _good_ doctor will not.” She replied, benign tone carrying a faint bit of sternness as she surveyed Mal’s bruises. “You have three breaks, two potential fractures, and too much swelling.”

Nate, now entirely undressed save a thin blanket to preserve modesty and fend off the chill, stopped his fitful shifting on the gurney. “Lucy -” He started to lean back on an elbow, winced and quickly surrendered the attempt. “Let him have one.”

The doctor threw Nate a look of combined disbelief and disapproval, blinking pointedly. “General. I do not need to explain to you what effect that could have on the healing process.”

“Not enough to matter tonight.” He answered, flat with exhaustion. “It’s just _one._ ”

She frowned. But disarmed by the General’s order, couldn’t rightly argue. Instead she sighed and shook her head, turning back to Mal. “If you start coughing, I will stop you.”

The argument Mal geared up to have fizzled out, and tension eased from his shoulders. Satisfied with his minor victory, Mal shot Nate a deeply grateful look, then eased himself onto the gurney and settled under the scratchy wool blanket.

Nate managed the tug of a smile back. All things considered, a smoke was a small concession.

While the doctor worked on hooking up the IV, Mal took the offered cup of water and sipped at it, washing the lingering taste of blood out of his mouth. By the time the assistant returned, Mal felt sleep pulling at him again. He ignored it long enough to light up, then tossed the lighter back.

Took a careful, shallow drag.

And caught himself before he could react to the acute pain digging into the left side of his ribs. The heady rush of nicotine and blurring effect of what had to be more med-x was enough to keep the worst of it at bay though, and Mal suppressed a cough.

After a long moment, he tipped his head back and let out a content, smokey sigh. “Mm—thanks, Doc.”

“Thank the General.” She replied, not unkindly, as she carefully applied pressure to various places along his abdomen. 

"Thank you, General," Mal parroted, equal parts snark and honest gratitude coloring the words.

“Mnph.” Nate was looking increasingly exhausted. The lull of med-x encouraged surrender, and made it easier to lay back on the stretcher. He felt himself floating. Reached a tentative hand up to worry at his forehead. “Jesus, Lucy, how much did you give me…?”

“Enough to keep you from wandering off.” She answered, not looking up from her work on Mal.

Mal hissed as Lucy's hands reached the lower half of the ugly bruising wrapping around his left side. A sharp spike of pain broke through even the dulling edge of the painkillers.

"Do you— _have_ to do that?” Mal gritted. He shifted and fought the impulse to grab her wrist and remove the source of the aggravation altogether. “Thought I was…supposed to be _resting_. Not getting—felt up by a—a fucking sadist.”

“I’m sorry.” She said, moving more carefully around the injury. “I know it hurts. I promise I’ll be done soon.”

Mumbling something nasty under his breath, Mal fidgeted at their touch, but didn't counter the statement. The IV was finally doing its work, and staying alert became more and more of a challenge as the minutes dragged on.

Nate fought for clarity too, but couldn’t quite work up the initiative to act on his frustration. The world grew hazy and warm. Willpower being the last bastion of his wakefulness, even the unwrapping of his dog bite earned little more than a lethargic huff.

Though the occasional question or flicker of pain pulled Mal from his doze, finally the doctor finished their examination, and he was allowed to rest for real.

His mostly finished cigarette vanished from his hand at some point, and by the time he thought to protest that his eyes had grown too heavy to keep open. With the lights dimmed, and extra blankets draped over him for warmth, the sheer toll the last few days had taken on his body combined with the lull of the med-x finally won out over any desire to stay conscious.

Mal drifted off into blissful, dreamless sleep.

Nate managed to stir at intervals while Lucy cleaned and sutured his wounds, or when they needed him to shift for better access. But it was a dreamer’s walk, without any real awareness attached. By the time he was bandaged and blanketed, he’d left consciousness behind entirely, too.

The rest of the night faded quietly.


	7. Good... Morning?

The first thought Nate had upon waking was that he loved Mal. It came to him clearly through the grogginess of - however long he had slept, narrow light cascaded through the embrasures that ventilated the infirmary. Morning, by the looks of it. 

This realization, it seemed, was more important than any of the very pressing concerns or questions left in last night's wings, which still hovered distantly out of reach.

Nate was not ready to love anyone. He might know now that Nora's ghost was a misguided specter, but her death haunted him nonetheless. The fear, the ache, the dread that drove him to such extremes in defense of those closest to him - secondhand or not, the memories were _real_. 

He'd known this might be happening. Never let himself fully believe it. Thought love might be within his power to simply deny and never act on. Told himself it could be buried like any other emotion. Like grief, or anger. Maybe that was why it came _now_ as such a surprise, and so inconveniently, to the forefront of his mind. 

Nate was not ready to love Mal.

But he did.

Bleary-eyed, Nate looked over at the stretcher beside him where Mal still slept.

It took Mal a long time to wake, and the first thing he realized was that he was propped up somewhere warm and comfortable. There was pain, but it was distant. Removed.

No, that—that wasn’t right…

Like a piece shoved into a random spot in a puzzle, it didn't fit. But without the lucidity of full awareness Mal couldn’t put his finger on _why_. 

Things stirred in the shadowy recesses at the back of his mind. Half-formed memories just out of reach. Shifting, Mal tried to curl up more, only to stop short when something tugged at his left arm. A tiny sting nipped his wrist.

_Oh._

Mal went still. His breath stuttered in his throat as dread prickled down the back of his neck. 

And now he _knew_ he was dreaming.

Rage surged then, and he forced his eyes open. Clawed his way to full awareness, ready to come back to the world kicking and spitting venom, all the more furious for being taken away from this after—after—

Mal blinked.

He was covered with some kind of blanket. Sunlight puddled across stone floors, warm and inviting. This was—

A groggy mumble was all Mal could get out, brows pulling together in a confused frown as he struggled to turn his head and take in the rest of his surroundings.

For the next few seconds he could only stare numbly, waiting for this rush of new information to equalize. Like a dam breaking, his memories returned in one, torrential flood.

The past three days, last night, the infirmary, Nate—

“ _Mn_ -Nate—”

Fighting against the layers of bedding weighing him down, Mal struggled to move. Accidentally tugged again at what he realized now wasn’t a set of handcuffs, but an IV line.

Because he was in the Castle infirmary. With Nate. They’d made it back. They were safe.

Anxiety flared though Nate's fingertips as Mal writhed. "H-hey", Nate croaked, urgency in his tone staggered by an unexpectedly dry throat. 

He pushed himself upright, through a surge of lightheadedness. Wounds all over his body made dull protests. None of them would be thanking him for the rush later. He swallowed for his voice back, but even that seemed to stick. Fumbling with his IV line to keep it from tangling, he managed to drag both feet over the edge of the gurney. " _M-al,_ easy-" 

Nate started to lean forward - then remembered he had nothing on beneath the blankets, not that modesty mattered here, except - he was injured. And woozy. And falling would probably be a bad idea. 

_One step. At a time._ Taking a deep breath, he tugged the blanket around him and slid a foot to the cool stone floor. Then the other. 

The sound of Nate’s voice drew Mal’s attention. Cut through the fear and disorientation and he stopped wrestling with his bedding long enough to look over. Blinked.

Watched Nate put his feet on the floor and—

“N-o,” Mal said, panic of an entirely different source seizing him. “Shit, d- _on’t_ —” 

He coughed, trying to clear some of the dryness from his throat. Remembered too late why that was a stupid idea with probably-cracked ribs. Doubling over, Mal curled his good arm around his chest and bit back another string of frustrated swearing he didn’t have the breath for anyway.

When he looked up again, it was to gesture with his injured hand and glare at Nate with as much insistence as he could muster. “Don’t get…up. _Stay._ ”

Nate had _stayed_ for too many days already. Watching for news, only to get a bloody keepsake and a ransom note at the end of it. And by now he was coherent enough to resent being asked to for a moment longer. “Or what?” He half-wheezed a laugh, clutching at the bar holding his iv bag up. “You’ll - throw a - pillow at me?”

But he didn’t take another step. Not yet. Hurting Mal in any capacity was the only thing worse than separation. An unwanted approach entirely defeated the point. Even though Nate was pretty sure he could get over there, so long as he took it slow.

Realizing Nate had stopped, Mal let out a half-sigh and rested his bandaged hand back in his lap. He sank back against the stretcher, relief mingling with adrenaline and the fuzziness of sleep. Reaching up with his other hand, Mal rubbed gingerly at his eyes, then muttered, “I’m…not gonna have to—if you faceplant on the floor trying to—hobble over here.”

“I could-” Nate cleared his throat, but the frog persisted. “Waddle to you on my knees.”

Another sigh. Mal tipped his head to the side then, to get a better look at him. Ambient light played across Nate's features, contouring the angles and planes of his face and softening them. Even through the dirt and bruises the sight of him was so painfully, comfortingly familiar that Mal had to take a breath and steady himself.

A sudden swell of fondness and longing obliterated all but a lingering trace of frustration.

Mal _wanted_ Nate here. He wanted to hold him, curl up next to him. Wanted that so much it hurt like a physical ache in his heart.

But more than that, Mal didn’t want Nate to get hurt— _again_ —because of him.

He struggled to think of a compromise that wouldn’t leave them both wanting, and came up empty handed.

“Just—take it slow?” Mal suggested. “Hold onto—the wall or...something.”

Grinning, Nate leaned into the wheeled IV pole, bracing against the gurney with his other hand. The stitching twinged a bit, but only until he found his feet. “Snail’s pace it is.” A smart idea, actually. He wasn’t feeling quite as steady as he’d hoped. More thanks to Lucy’s horse tranquilizer than any injury, to be sure.

Although it would be asinine, even for him, to pretend these weren’t significant. He’d been reckless. That came with a cost.

In limping increments, Nate steered himself over. Both beds sported chairs beside them. He aimed for that. It wasn’t as close as he wanted to be, but it would do for now to have Mal within arm’s reach.

Through last-minute haste or clumsiness, Nate’s elbow careened against the side of Mal’s stretcher. Nate leaned into the mess of blankets, for a moment too unbalanced to right himself. He smirked over gritted teeth. “Don’t even.”

Mild panic battled with the desire to laugh as Nate finally made it, only to nearly pitch headfirst into Mal's lap. Mal tried for sternness, not wanting to encourage Nate, but his lip quirked in a grin desite himself.

“God, you're...such a dumbass,” he muttered, too warm to _actually_ be upset.

Mal leaned over on impulse, before he could rethink the action or Nate had a chance to protest, and wrapped his arms around Nate. Ignored the twinge of his own injuries and buried his face in Nate’s hair.

He tensed briefly, more out of surprise than pain. Quickly relaxed into the embrace with a weak chuckle. “Takes one to know one.”

Mal pulled in a shallow, raspy breath. Closed his eyes against the flood of hot tears he’d anticipated last night. They hadn't come then. But now, once they started, it was like something still knotted in his chest finally loosened.

Mal swallowed against the lump in his throat. Fought to find words for all the things he wanted—needed—to say and came up empty handed. The fingers of his good hand curled and uncurled absently against Nate's skin.

Smile fading, Nate shut his eyes over an overwhelming pang of every conceivable emotion. Yesterday time had been running out toward an irreversible tragedy. Today they had each other again. He knew all too well the odds rarely favored such mercies. 

_I was so afraid._ He thought. _I was terrified, and I love you, and I want you to stay with me._ But he could confess none of those. The sentiments were too strong, and too far reaching, to weigh on a fragile heart.

Worry over Mal’s distress plagued Nate worse. He’d didn’t know enough yet. Only that they’d lived when they should have died. None of what came next was going to be easy. He wished he knew what to say to fix that, too. But this time, at least, they wouldn’t be surviving _alone._

Releasing the pole, Nate let his weight rest against the stretcher and reached back for Mal. Maybe words didn’t matter right now anyway. It was enough, to hold each other for a while. 

Silent tears shifted into muffled sobs, then. The process was ugly and ungainly and aggravated the swelling in Mal's sinuses and the pain in his ribs, but once he gave in to the impulse he couldn't stop.

Even if he'd been a pretty crier there would’ve been no saving his dignity this time. All he could do was cling to Nate and try to ride it out as best he could. Wonder if Nate _really_ understood how much he meant to Mal, and how unbearable the thought of losing him had become.

If Nate understood just how much Mal loved him.

It was the sobbing that finally moved Nate to speak. His hand pressed gently against Mal's back, careful to avoid the bruising. "I'm _here_." Nate murmured, hoarse words rumbling against Mal's convulsing sobs. The only reassurance Nate knew how to offer right now. " _You're_ here." 

His own tears burned against the corners of his eyes as the moment swept around and through the room. "We made it."

Robbed of the ability to speak, Mal just held Nate close.

He wasn’t sure how much longer after that it took before the tears finally stopped and he was able to pull himself together again. Even then Mal didn’t move right away. 

Just breathed. Held Nate close. Let a kind of stillness and quiet creep over him.

Mal felt hollowed out. An odd, not-quite-there-ness settling into the cavity left behind by whatever firestorm had burned through him, clearing away the dead undergrowth and making way for new things to grow.

Eventually, Mal recovered enough to trust his own voice. The crying _definitely_ hadn’t done him any favors, and the pain in his face and chest spiked again in response to the repeated aggravation.

“Y-eah,” he managed. “We uh...we made it."

Christ, he sounded like shit though. Or… _more_ like shit than before.

Nate cracked his eyes open, just a little, and nodded against Mal. Knew the moment was soon to end. Found himself wishing he could hold on just a little longer. 

Clearing his throat, Mal leaned back enough to regain use of his arm. Reached up and attempted to wipe away the mix of tears and snot and previously-dried blood smeared across his face— _ugh._ Ok, maybe a shower was on the agenda, too.

Nate pulled away carefully, allowing space to fill between them but keeping a hand braced on the gurney. Ran fingers through his hair, which came back sticky. Whoops.

Mal grimaced at the mess he’d made of both of them, then gave a cursory glance around the room. “Where’s…Dr. Sunshine?”

Nate looked toward the door. Wiping his hand off on the blanket draped - now rather precariously - around him, he shook his head. “Maybe she didn’t expect us to wake up so early.”

But they were still due to be checked every hour by _someone_ , minimally. And Lucy would give him hell for staying on his feet before she’d had a chance to inspect the stitches to his calf. Shuffling over, Nate made his way to the chair beside Mal’s stretcher, and eased down onto the weathered cushion with a heavy exhale. 

Mal watched Nate carefully as he moved to the chair, but turned his attention back to the rest of the room once he made it safely. Now that Mal had reached a sort of emotional equilibrium again, all the other minor things he’d been able to ignore pushed to the forefront.

“What time is it—anyway?” Mal cleared his throat, then scrubbed his hand off on one of the blankets. “Think we’re ah—too late for breakfast?” 

Which Mal _was_ determined to get, one way or another. Along with an actual, _full_ glass of water, and a pack of cigarettes, and—he frowned thoughtfully and twitched up the blankets to double check against his own memory—yep, pants. Definitely needed pants, too.

Maybe pants first, actually.

“Nine or ten, maybe?” Nate answered, testing the bandage on his arm for a loose spot where he could peek under. “We’ll probably get salt crackers first. But then…” He trailed off showily.

Yawning, Mal fidgeted again and ran a hand through his own hair. At this point it didn’t feel like it’d fared much better than Nate’s looked, after the past few days he’d had. He scrubbed that off on the blanket too.

Nate’s smile strained. The dinner he’d made three days ago felt like a lifetime, now. The excitement of preparing it came rushing back, innocent and trusting, tainted by the sick twist in his gut when he’d realized Mal wouldn’t be there that night. Or the night after. Maybe never again. “I - ah, we have soup.” Something fragile had crept into his voice, though he did his best to keep up the enthusiasm. “Thanks to you fixing up that fridge, it’s still good. A pie, too. …But uh- I mean I’m sure we have other things, too.”

Maybe three-day-old birthday soup wasn’t exactly a tactful suggestion. 

Though the shift in Nate's enthusiasm worried Mal a little, the mention of real food had him perking up again just as quickly.

“Soup? And _pie_ —?” Mal shot Nate a smile, genuinely delighted at the suggestion, if a bit confused why Nate would think he would turn down the offer in the first place. “Hell yes I want that. Your soup is the best—why _wouldn’t_ I want it?"

Why wouldn't he. Nate's lip tugged weakly. For three days the soup in the fridge had sat in limbo, an incarnate fear that all Nate's preparation and anticipation of another year by Mal’s side could simply, amount to nothing. A gift that would never be unwrapped. A promise that wouldn't be kept.

Significant, familiar horrors which left Nate unsure how to return to the place Mal was at - eager for a shared meal come just a little late. 

But his enthusiasm salved the uncertainty. If Nate could still offer this, and it wasn't ruined, then he could fend off his own inhibitions to see Mal smile. 

After a brief pause, Mal let out a chuckle and added dryly, “Though ah—I think I’d go for just about anything at this point. As long as it’s not dog food." Reaching up, he scratched at the corner of his mouth, wondering only _after_ the fact if maybe that was a tactless thing to joke about.

Tensing, Nate's breath caught for a minute as he processed the implication. Then he answered, flat, "No - it's, uh. We have only the very best _cat_ food around here. None of that kibble nonsense."

“Oh, well—that’s good,” Mal said, plucking at the blanket. “Shouldn’t ah…run into any problems with that…”

Nate managed to turn his eyes back to Mal, trying for a smile.

Clearing his throat sheepishly, he swept his gaze back across the room. Partly to avoid looking at Nate, and partly out of the vain hope that a pair of clothes might have materialized in the room somewhere while they’d been talking.

No such luck, of course.

“Y’know I’m—starting to think they didn’t leave clothes—” Mal gave a careful, shallow cough, trying again to clear some of the gravel from his voice. “—because they were…worried about us wandering—off.”

“That’s definitely why.” An unironic answer. Lucy’s cheerful exterior concealed an utterly ruthless cunning when it came to managing unruly patients. She could not have simply forgotten to provide a change of clothes. Nate loved and hated her for it.

Mal grunted. Nate’s answer didn’t really surprise him all that much.

It didn’t _deter_ him much, either.

Nate glanced toward the locked metal cabinets at the back of the room, wondering vaguely whether she might have anything useful in there. But by now his drowsiness had mostly cleared. Other inconveniences were at hand, and not just a pressing need for a bathroom. Which was - also considerable.

Abruptly, fresh tears and despair fought for dominance of his mind. Slugs was _dead_. She wouldn’t hurt anyone else ever again. There wasn’t any comfort in it. Just like there’d been no comfort in Kellogg’s demise. Only a bitter taste in Nate’s mouth, sticky and black like swallowed ash. Revenge had never managed to taste sweet. He was tired, without wanting to sleep.

“We could probably _-y_ fashion these into togas, if we get desperate.” he suggested, little of the internal strife showing through. For now, relief to be reunited with Mal was enough to push back the tide of a hard battle.

Mal thought over his options for a good two seconds, giving somewhat serious consideration to Nate's, before he shrugged and flipped the blankets back off of his lap.

“Well, lucky for me I—lost my sense of dignity years ago.” Snickering to himself, Mal shot a look in Nate’s direction. “Maybe if I wander across the parade grounds like this—they’ll rethink their clothes-snatching tactics…in the future.”

“Or at least their policy on cuffing patients to the beds.” Nate scoffed.

With a subdued laugh, Mal added, “Good point.” For an uncomfortable few moments though, his thoughts skittered to the lines of angry bruising circling his wrists, and he reconsidered the quip he’d been about to shoot back.

After fiddling with the IV line and stand to keep it from tangling, Mal carefully swung his legs over the side of his stretcher and braced a hand against it, preparing to stand.

His nude figure was not an unfamiliar sight for Nate; they’d been patched up together after enough ill-advised foolery that even bruises and bandages weren’t a shock on their own. But after the initial once-over, Nate glanced away. He rubbed absently at his own wrist.

Lightheadedness persisted, although the drowsiness of sleep and the lingering effects of the med-x seemed to have settled. As long as he didn’t try to do any cartwheels, Mal didn’t think he'd have any problems getting around the room, outside of the hassle of having to drag around the IV.

“Anything you want—while I’m up?” Mal asked, finally pushing to his feet. He hesitated next to the gurney, making sure he was steady, before maneuvering the wheeled stand with his left hand, keeping his right free in case he needed to catch himself or…do anything even remotely useful.

He had a feeling that was going to get old _really_ fast.

“No, I-” Nate swallowed, bracing on the arm of the chair. “I’ll get up, too.” 

He pushed to his feet, keeping Mal in his peripheral. At first Nate thought he’d keep his own blanket, more to hide the bruising than his own lack of clothing. But trying to carry it around the room on a scavenger hunt, while Nate had to lean both hands against his pole for support wasn’t exactly practical.

Leaving it behind, he took a testing step forward, and let more of his weight rest on the wounded leg. He could definitely feel it this time. Wincing, Nate leaned back onto his good heel. 

Mal didn’t protest. Just let his gaze flit over to Nate as thorny, prickly guilt set in. Selfishly, Mal refused to stay in bed when he knew at the very least Nate should. And if he’d been a better person, he would’ve insisted they both wait together for the doctor, because he knew as soon as he got up, Nate would want to follow, but—

With a muted sigh, Mal hooked his left arm around the pole of the IV stand and maneuvered so Nate was on his right side, then stretched out his hand to him. 

“At least hang onto me. The Doc will have me drawn and quartered—if she finds out I instigated this and then…let you fall on your ass.”

Nate reached back, laughing a little as they leaned into each other for equilibrium. “Feels familiar, doesn’t it? Naked, half-starved, the air smells like mirelurk. One of us limping.”

More or less the life you came to expect in a postwar Commonwealth. 

“Still…missing the soup though.” Mal laughed, steering them both towards the bank of metal cabinets at the back of the room. Those seemed like a good place to start.

“ _I promise,_ before the day is over, I’ll get you your soup.” Nate assured, still a bit drawn, but some real humor returning to his voice. It was a concrete step. Food, water, rest, a _bath._ Any easy checklist, a script he could follow to get them through the aftershock. And God willing, by the time they had those, Nate would know what to do about the way his heart ached with fear to be so close to Mal.

“ _Mmg_ —you better,” he grumbled for effect, and pressed against Nate’s side a bit more. Not enough to trip him, just hoping to erase a fraction more of the empty space between them.

They made it to the cabinets without too much trouble. All locked. The sink, though, was pumped in from a water purifier. Which meant they could drink from the tap... If they could manage to lean over that far without falling.

The locked cabinets earned a scathing look before Mal dismissed them as a lost cause. Even if he’d had the tools he needed, his chances of getting any of them open one-handed before someone found them out of bed were dismally low.

Shaking his head, Mal reached out and turned on the faucet. He leaned over the basin and splashed a few handfuls of it on his face, letting the frigid water rinse away some of the crusted grime and whatever else was still smeared across it.

Normally, the temperature would’ve been an annoyance, but now, with the state of his face, the cold felt soothing against the bruises and swelling. Mal lingered that way longer than was probably wise, then cupped a hand and took a few long drinks.

When he shuffled back it was with a sigh of undisguised contentment. A couple more things like this and he might start feeling halfway human again.

“Better?” Nate asked.

“Yeah,” Mal said, clearing his throat and swiping his fingers across his eyes. He angled himself and offered his shoulder for Nate to hold for added balance. “All yours.”

He limped the couple of steps back to Mal, from where Nate had retreated parly to offer space, and also to check if any of the locks were left loose by mistake. None were. “Thanks.” 

Swallowing, Nate braced against Mal to lean over the sink, careful to avoid his bruising as much as possible. Cold water burned against dry lips, but served as a relief all the same. He only took a couple of sips. Then tilted forward at a better - albeit more precarious - angle to rinse his face and some of the lingering stiffness from his hair.

About halfway into the motion, their luck ran out. The groan of a heavy door opening echoed through the room. 

More out of reflex than anything, Nate tried to turn - putting too much weight on his injured leg in the process. A sharp surge of pain arced upward and his entire body clenched as he staggered. 

“ _Shi_ —!”

Panicking, Mal scooped his good arm under Nate. The maneuver threw Mal off balance, and he lurched awkwardly into the counter, taking most of their weight on his left side and forearm. It was only through some miraculous stroke of luck that he managed to keep them both on their feet at all.

With a grunt, Nate scrambled for additional purchase, his one flailing hand clawing at the edge of the cabinets. Chest too tight to manage any actual words, he did his best to alleviate the strain on Mal quickly. Not an easy feat with only one good leg and shocks of angry nerves flaring out from every other injury aggravated by the stumble.

Gritting his teeth against the sudden spike of pain in his ribs, and swearing with what breath he had left, Mal turned to face whoever had made the grave mistake of walking in on them.

“ _What?_ ” he snapped, already planting his feet to better help Nate back to his.

A frankly terror-stricken assistant stared, mouth parted, utterly disarmed at the scene before them, eyes fixed squarely on their faces. “What are you- You shouldn’t be…”

After checking that Nate was alright, Mal snarled back at the assistant, “We shouldn’t be _what_? Maybe you should—think really fucking hard about how you wanna finish that sentence...”

“Ahem.” Nate managed, wearing his mildest form of cordiality as he finally managed to straighten. Or at least, as much as he could over the flickering of pain.

Still sticking close to Nate, Mal held unbroken eye contact with the now _incredibly_ uncomfortable looking assistant.

Good. Maybe if he harassed them enough they’d _leave_.

“Mal, I think - we’re the ones who are supposed to be in trouble here.” Nate suggested, leaning against him lightly more for comfort than physical support. “Patients out of bed, y’know?”

Even knowing this was coming from _Nate_ , that he didn’t mean anything by it, Mal struggled to ride out a wave of genuine fury. He’d spent three days on the wrong end of being told what to do, only to fall right back into the same pattern again _here_ of all places.

“Fuck that,” he muttered, so low even Nate might’ve missed it if he wasn’t paying close attention. Lip curling up in a warning snarl, Mal added loud enough for both to hear, “And what’re they gonna do if we— _misbehave_? Cut off a couple more fingers?” With an angry flick, Mal gestured with his bandaged hand.

It was as if the floor dropped out beneath Nate's feet. Their tentative banter evaporated like morning mist, leaving the shape of a tangled, bitter mass of all that remained unspoken. 

Nate shut his eyes, corners wrinkling over a restrained wince. He inhaled. Held it. "...Would you excuse us? Please." It was a quiet request, but it carried a General's authority. His eyes opened. "You can fetch Lucy, but tell her to wait outside until we call."

They all but fled. The door clunked shut behind them. 

Nate's leg was burning in throbs now, but he ignored it. He let the quiet settle, still pressed softly against Mal.


	8. The Misunderstanding

Something like anger writhed in Mal’s chest, ugly and hateful, but it turned on its host in the silence that followed the assistant's dismissal. He let out a shaky breath, and fought the urge to pull away from Nate. 

He kept doing what he was trying so hard _not_ to do—he kept fucking up. 

He kept hurting Nate.

Swallowing, Mal stared down at the floor, almost scared to meet Nate's eyes. Shifted to lean against the sink so he could cross his arms over his chest, ignoring the aggravated twinge his left hand gave at the sudden manipulation. It was definitely the least he deserved right now.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Mal said quietly, but still too loud in the sudden vacuum that had opened in the space between them. “That—”

"It's alright." Nate answered, mild and without hesitation, leaning back against the counter. He exhaled, and stayed close beside Mal. 

It wasn't hard to see his distress. Nate could practically feel it rolling off Mal in waves. And that hurt, more than Nate could describe. Corkscrewed through him to the core. "I promise. 

"I'm upset - but - not at this. Not at you." The doctor's orders weren't really the heart of the matter, so he didn't bother wasting words over it. At least not yet. Nate had hoped they might get through breakfast, first. But he rarely got what he wanted. They would have to make do.

"I don't expect any of this to be... simple. After that hell." He didn't turn fully to face Mal, but his head tilted a little, hoping to catch a gaze from the corner. "So we'll just take it one step at a time. You can talk to me. Tell me what you need. Or we can figure it out together. But -" Nate ran a hand through his hair, "Please know, I wanna be here for you. Whatever that means."

After Nate finished talking, Mal let the silence stretch on a bit longer before offering a limp shrug, arms still folded tightly over his chest. “I’m not—I’m not upset with you either,” He started. “I’m just…”

Mal trailed off, shook his head. The fingers of his right hand were gripped around his arm so tight now at this rate they’d leave bruises.

_Tell me what you need._

The problem was, Mal didn’t _know_ what he needed. Everything he wanted right now was a conflict of impulses and impossibilities.

“…I thought you were going to die.” The words were small, heavy with the kind of raw pain that was impossible to disguise and definitely not what he’d planned on saying. “I—I thought—”

Thought they were both going to die, so nothing that happened ultimately mattered. All Mal's defiance and fury and helpless rage had seemed like the only solution right up until it stopped being a solution at all.

And now they were here.

Alive.

It was over and done and Slugs was _dead_ so why did any of it still _matter_?

Mal drew in a sharp breath. Held it. Waited.

Nate nodded, heat pooling against his eyes that he did his best to hold back. He'd been terrified he might lose Mal. In a frenzy. Driven to challenge an entire troop of raiders on their own turf. Take foolish risks. He'd seen nothing but red, and been - eager even, to take lives. _Too eager._ Predatory. Nate blinked again, hard. 

For Mal, losing Nate hadn’t been a maybe, or almost, but an eventuality. _I thought you were going to die._ And if Nate had died, Mal would have, too. 

There was no point in Nate promising not to leave that way. Others might like believing the General was invincible, but Mal had never wanted a hero. No crusader, martyr, or symbol. He insisted on the truth, even if it was ugly. And the truth was - neither one of them had any right to be standing here. He'd had every reason to believe they wouldn't make it back. 

_For three days._

But instead... 

With a pang, Nate reached for Mal's arm, tentatively, hoping to tug the hand free of its chokehold and let the wounded fingers rest against Nate's own palm. "You asked me not to kill those two down in the basement. Why...?" He murmured quietly.

He let Nate have his arm without resistance. The insistent throbbing was back in full force, but it seemed trivial in the moment. Something just a little to the left of center.

Mal struggled with himself for a long moment before finally speaking. “I’m not…worth—” He shook his head, frustrated, tension held in every line of his body, even though he’d given up the death grip on his own arm. “I didn’t want you to have to live with—that. I know that’s not…the kind of person you wanna be and…”

Mal looked down again, shoulders drawing inward as much as he could with Nate still holding his hand. “...I didn’t want you to have to be that…for me. I’m not—” Mal trailed off again, not sure he wanted to—or could—follow that thought all the way to completion.

There was really no point in trying not to cry. Nate was very still as they bled down his face. He didn't know what sort of answer he'd expected - maybe he hadn't had any expectations at all. But Mal's affection came hand in hand with a demon. Mal had been ready to die, might even have destroyed himself. For Nate? As if he desired _anything_ at all in the world more than to be by Mal's side.

Nate wanted to rail against the injustice of so much self-doubt. Grab Mal, and hold him close, forever, and beat away that savage darkness. He meant - _so_ much more to Nate than Nate could ever express. To get Mal out, Nate would've killed them all a dozen times over. And that was part of what strangled him, now. He would make that _same_ foolish risk. The same self-sacrifice. _He wouldn't even blink._

Suddenly sailing without wind, Nate lifted Mal's wounded hand up and pressed careful lips across the bandages. Let the gesture linger there.

 _I love you._ Words he couldn't say, but seemed to answer every vivid question burning through Nate's mind.

Mal looked over at Nate, and a spark of something flickered across what had previously been an endless, dark abyss. The careful way Nate’s lips pressed to his broken fingers felt like an answer to a question Mal had been too afraid to ask.

A devotion Mal didn't come close to being worthy of, no matter how badly he ached for it.

All Nate had been able to see was the threat. If Mal hadn't intervened... Slugs and Pincer paved their ends. But that boy, in the basement - Nate swallowed back a throat full of bile. His own impurity shone through in moments like these. He would always be grateful to Mal for interfering. Over and over, in so many ways, Nate was a better person, because of him. _For_ him.

Mal was Nate's compass.

"Shouldn't I get a say in how much you mean to me?" He murmured, lowering Mal's hand but still holding it. "I'm glad you stopped me." Nate's voice cracked. "I think you're the only person that could have. You -"

 _Thought we would die. Thought you weren't worth it._ Nate felt sick. How could he hope to compete with such agony. And what else had happened under Slugs's teeth, that Mal was _living with_ now.

Nate rubbed at the stains across his cheeks. "You're the reason I'm still here."

Turning, Mal reached out tentatively. Laid his right hand on Nate’s bare shoulder, wanting—what?

Mal had his answer. He finally had the _truth_. He had—

Everything.

He had _Nate_.

Not even daring to breathe, Mal shuffled forward into Nate’s space. He was terrified he might frighten him off, or do the wrong thing—ruin this still, somehow. Leaning in, Mal slid his right hand up to cup the back of Nate’s neck, then rested his forehead gently against Nate’s. Mal let his eyes slip closed.

Frozen in place, Nate finally eased into the gesture and pressed back, eyes also shut. He let his palm rest flat against Mal's chest - a barrier or an outreach, or both at once.

_You’re the reason I’m still here._

He pulled in a trembling breath. His hands were shaking; all of him was shaking.

“I—wouldn’t be here without you, either. I—” Swallowing hard, Mal fought for the right words, “—wouldn’t _want_ to be.”

Nate managed a shuddered, half-sob of an exhale, nuzzling his forehead against Mal. It felt wrong somehow, letting him so close without telling him how much Nate wanted more. Even though he shouldn't. Even though _this,_ friendship, was supposed to be enough. Especially _now_ , in the state they were both in.

But that didn't stop the wanting.

Nate's fingers ridged against Mal's chest, still holding his wounded hand carefully, and close.

Mal’s breath hitched and he instinctively started to arch into Nate's touch before the last, logical piece of his brain kicked back in and he caught himself. He let the hand he’d been about to slide into Nate’s hair drop back to his shoulder. A safer middle ground.

“Nate…hey.” Mal’s tone was gentle, but insistent. “Wait—”

Eyes opening at the subtle shift in tone, Nate braced against a wave of uncertain premonitions. No clear suspicion managed to settle into coherent apprehension. All of them rushed to mind and jumbled together in a heap.

Swallowing hard, Mal said, “If this—if this isn’t something you wanna take any farther here you uh, need to let me know _now_ , okay?”

Nate hesitated, eyes flicking to the side. 'Any farther' could mean _any_ thing. But - 

The hand resting on Nate’s shoulder lifted to hover over the one still pressed to Mal’s chest.

Mal wanted this. He wanted Nate so much it felt like he was burning alive from the inside, but he had to be _sure_ the fire Nate started was intentional.

Almost ruefully, he continued, “I’m—don’t get me wrong, I—I want this. I do—but only if this is something you want too. And if this isn’t what you’re looking for, or it’s not what you want right now, or you need more time, or—whatever…I’ll—I’ll understand.” 

Mal let out a shaky, breathless laugh and lifted his head again, hoping to meet Nate’s gaze. A note of wry humor crept into his voice, despite the heaviness of other emotions weighing him down. “But ah—if this is a pants-on kinda situation now is _definitely_ the time to speak up.”

 _A pants on..._ Nate blinked for the second time. **_What?_**

Shock bit like venom. Two dozen pieces of proprietary custom Nate had thrown out in favor of tending a wounded comrade became _intimately_ important, again. He couldn't quite process Mal's confession over the nuclear detonation of panic laying waste to Nate's sensibilities.

"Uh-" He wanted this, and he wasn't ready, and he hadn't meant to, and Mal _knew_ and-

Nate leaned back, free of the handhold, almost enough to pitch out of equilibrium completely and lose his balance again. Looking away sharply - why, he didn't know, he'd already shown too much - he clenched his jaw and forgot to breathe as he weighed a hand against the counter. _"Shit."_ The word limped out. Nate barely recognized his own voice.

"I wasn't trying to... _No_. No I didn't - mean to lead you on I just..." Some part of what Mal had said finally filtered through. Nate cast his eyes up again, a single corner of his lip tugged up under a furrowed brow of immense concentration as he stared at Mal. As if the look of him might lend some coherency to the blank static otherwise replacing Nate's capacity for reasoning. “Are we - talking about…?”

Mal didn’t offer an immediate reaction to Nate’s stumbling reaction. Or the question that followed. He stared, wordless and blank, as something warm and hopeful fizzled out like a spark under heavy rain.

“…Right,” He said, something that might’ve just been tiredness from the stress of the morning lacing his voice. But Nate knew better. Mal pulled back a step farther, giving Nate his space. “I—guess that answers that.”

He couldn’t be mad at Nate for his answer—couldn’t resent him. Mal wasn’t that petty or selfish. Nate could’ve pulled out a knife and stabbed him and Mal didn’t think he’d have the heart to really be _upset_ , although of the two options, that might’ve been the less painful one. If Nate wasn’t interested, he wasn’t interested—Mal wasn’t shitty enough to push when the verdict on that was clear.

“Sorry,” Mal added, already looking towards the stretchers before sighing and making his way back across the room. “We don’t—have to talk about this, just…forget I said anything.”

_I’m just a goddamn idiot. As usual._

“You can let them back in. Promise I won’t fly off the handle again. I’m ah—” Mal stopped as he reached his stretcher, then sank down on the edge of it, grabbing a handful of blankets and carelessly tossing them over his lap. “I’m sure Dr. Smiles is gonna have plenty to say as is.”

Nate stayed rooted in place as Mal crossed over to his gurney, and made his promises, and covered himself in haphazard patterns.

Stalling wasn't in Nate's nature. But he lay at war with himself, now.

 _We don't have to talk about this._ Nate felt his world tilt by the axis and spin wildly out of orbit. That would be easy, wouldn't it? And safe. _And a lie._

He didn't deserve what he wanted from Mal. Even now wasn't sure what they wanted was quite the same, anyway - the conversation had ended too abruptly. But Mal's track record spoke of casual intimacies, one-night stands. Roving love, too impersonal for Nate. And if that was what Mal meant, then Nate had lied too when he offered _anything_ in the line of comfort after their ordeal.

Except Mal had – had asked Nate. Offered to wait.

Suppose Mal did mean - not just a fling, or a momentary relief? What if, like Nate, he craved a body and a soul entwined, and that wasn't idealistic nonsense from a dreamer trapped in the wrong time?

It would still be a bad idea. Nate was utterly unworthy of such affections, and hadn’t he proved it time and time again against Mal's trust?

Hell, look what had _just_ happened. Nate could not pretend to have the stability of mind to pursue this. He was a wreck. Damaged goods. _Created_ that way by cruel masters and cursed with fears that should never have been his to bear. Even now the very thought of starting over _\- starting over!_ As if Nora had been _his_ and not a dead man's. Felt wrong. Like betrayal. Infidelity.

He stared down at the floor.

Logic could not expunge guilt of that caliber. But it could recognize how devastating a second loss might be, if Nate was ever brave enough to ask for the love of another. And neither of those were good reasons to pursue Mal or alter the course of this conversation.

 _God._ What had Nate even been thinking? How had he crawled so far along through the moment before, lost in some delusion of going unnoticed. As if he could lie to Mal as easily as he lied to himself!

The way Mal had asked left Nate’s good leg trembling with the weak one. Now that he could make sense of the words through the static. It was not in his nature to rush blindly ahead, either. There’d been enough mistakes already this morning; he feared he didn’t have the coherence, let alone the nerve. He didn’t want to hurt Mal.

But still, _it would be wrong._ It would be wrong, because their friendship was a cornerstone. Trying to change things, knowing how fragile fears could lash out, was dangerous. It could cost them a helluva lot more than they stood to earn.

Mal deserved better than that. Better than all of that.

He should have someone who knew what the hell to _say_ , here, rather than Nate, standing shell-shocked in a corner.

Nate did not want to talk about this. And it would be easy. In the moment. But it wouldn’t be safe. And lies had a tendency to fester. With a pang, he realized the fact this had come up at all meant that change was coming. One way or another. The shape of their friendship was altered. He’d rather face it head on, not helplessly.

That, at least, he could choose for himself.

Using the IV pole for support, Nate limped after Mal. He moved as fast as he dared, realizing time might be the limiting factor in keeping both legs under him. Did his best to walk straight, too. Because Mal had left him behind, which hurt, but Nate had no intention of casting blame. Mal had been through enough already.

By the time Mal realized his mistake, Nate had already started his limping journey back across the room. _Alone._

Because Mal had stormed off in a childish huff, leaving him to struggle there by himself.

Mal whipped his head up fast enough the room spun, then lurched to his feet, blanket rustling as it dropped to the floor.

“Shit— _Nate,_ ” Mal said, voice strained with guilt-stricken panic. Half scrambling, Mal rushed back to Nate's side without a second thought, sliding a careful arm around him to take as much strain off Nate’s injured leg as possible. “Fuck, _sorry_ —I wasn’t thinking. Just—lean on me, okay?”

 _Neither was I._ Nate might have said, but by now the ringing in his ears was disorienting and he _definitely_ didn’t trust himself to speak. Wincing, he allowed himself to be led. 

Instead of returning Nate to his own stretcher, Mal took him to the closer gurney. His blanket was still there beside the chair, in a heap on the floor beside Mal’s. Nate leaned toward the chair, only to realize belatedly that Mal intended to set him up on the stretcher itself.

Maybe… not the worst idea. 

He abandoned the notion of protest quickly, though Nate's gut twisted with residual alarm as Mal pressed him to lean back onto the stretcher. Using his good elbow, which still ached from the shotgun blast spiraling out near the shoulder, he shuffled back with a grunt and a profound pout. If anyone else had tried to help so drastically, Nate would have been waving them away by now.

Barely settled against the vinyl cushion before Mal had scooped Nate's legs up, he let out an involuntary hiss through gritted teeth at the surge of pain. Even a careful touch couldn't abate it.

Lucy was _definitely_ going to drug him again for overdoing it like this. 

"Don't - call her yet." He wheezed in a jumble. The blanket flopped over him next, and for a moment Nate had to resign himself to laying back on the stretcher, eyes closed, until the fog of pain passed enough to speak again. 

Mal frowned, but didn’t argue.

After making sure Nate was settled on the gurney, Mal reached down and plucked the other blanket off the floor, wincing as the strain started to catch up to him too. They'd _both_ overdone it, and probably deserved the chewing out Lucy had in store for them.

Shaking the wool out, Mal prepared to sit in the chair at the bedside. Give them both a second to breathe before calling the doctor in again. Because like it or not, they would _have_ to let her in again at some point—to check Nate’s leg, if nothing else.

He wrestled back the protest of other nerves urging him to leave things as they were in spite of knowing better. _Mal_ deserved better.

“Can we…” Nate swallowed, stretching the wool blanket out and smiling feebly. “Can we though? Talk. About…” Us? _It?_ He twisted a palm open to beckon between them with the hand Mal had held before. “A-after – over soup, maybe?”

Mal froze, panic slicing deep. His right hand twisted in the fabric of the blanket, but he looked over—cautiously—when he realized Nate was gesturing to him.

“I—” Mal started, shame choking him this time more than fear. “Yeah, we can—we can talk.” 

Nate nodded appreciatively, exhaling. He kept his eyes on Mal, worry taking the forefront in a slew of uncomfortable conflictions.

He sighed, shaking out the blanket as an excuse to look away from Nate again. “I just—I’m not upset with you, okay? I’m not mad, and…you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Gaze lingering for a moment longer, Nate swallowed again. “...Okay.” He’d done plenty wrong. But like so many other hovering unsaid things, they couldn’t talk about them now. It had to be a sin - wishing he could hold Mal’s hand _now_ after - such a debacle. But Nate wouldn’t have minded the comfort. It frightened him to think such gestures might become taboo in perpetuity, but the possibility was all too easy to imagine. A _lot_ of fears seemed very present, now. 

“You-”, Nate started, running his fingers along the fringe of the blanket. Would it always feel like this? Stumbling through the dark, hoping not to break the fragile thing they’d found. “It’s not your fault.”

Fidgeting with the blanket, Mal finally sank down into the chair with a weary groan. He flipped the rough cloth over his lap, pulling it up towards his shoulders for warmth, then reached out for Nate. He rested his hand on the edge of the gurney and turned it palm up, the offer clear.

Mal didn't have any other answer for Nate right now, but hopefully that would be enough. Too many emotions snarled around Mal’s heart to hope to sort them out here, but however this ended—whether Nate wanted more than a friendship or not—Mal knew he couldn’t walk away from this.

He couldn’t walk away from _Nate_.

For a moment it didn’t seem as if he’d respond. Then, like wingtips on a butterfly, Nate’s fingers brushed against Mal’s. A half-second of hesitation later, and Nate’s palm came to rest lightly atop the offered one. Nate held his breath. Gently, Mal curled his fingers and gave Nate’s hand a squeeze. 

Letting out another breath, Mal said, “We should— _ugh_. I'm gonna call Lucy back in now. Get this over with."

He didn’t want to—Nate probably didn’t want him to either—but dragging it out would only make this worse, and the state of Nate’s leg worried Mal more than he was letting on.

“If she tries to drug me again I’m going for the window.” Nate managed, despite the fact that the ballistaria were not nearly big enough for a person to squeeze through.

Mal cleared his throat, then raised his voice loud enough to reach across the room, "Hey, Doc? You uh, can come in now."


	9. No More Missus Nice Doctor

Lucy shoved the door open, old hinges groaning at the sudden strain. Their gaze staggered over Mal - not in bed. And then to Nate - pale, sick looking, in the _wrong_ bed. 

“Morning, Doc.” He greeted.

A muscle in her jaw clenched visibly. “General. If I am not here to give you advice, and I am not here to treat your wounds, and I am not to be allowed to enter the infirmary as needed to tend my patients, then why - _exactly_ \- do you need a doctor in the first place?”

“Sorry, Lu, -”

“Do _not_ use that nickname when I’m scolding you.”

“So uh—when’s breakfast?” Mal asked. Not _hopeful_ , exactly, but wanting to get a word in before the others geared up into some kind of heated argument. “It’s not part of the doctor’s policy to starve their patients, is it?”

Lucy’s stern frown landed on Mal. “Breakfast is at 7am, tomorrow, as usual. If you manage to start behaving well enough to avoid tearing your stitches out and collapsing onto the floor, I _might_ let you go and have dinner tonight.” Then back to Nate. “Assuming that I will be allowed to do _the job_ you offered me, General.”

Without particularly meaning to, Nate’s hand had curled tighter against Mal’s. “Yes, Doctor. Sorry.” He apologized, frowning. 

“Good.” She nodded stiffly, finally approaching them. She was tailed by two wide-eyed assistants who looked fearful of stepping into an open fire line. 

“What -time is it now?”

“Seven in the _afternoon_. You slept about fourteen hours.” 

Mal blinked, and did the mental reframing required to apply that information. “Oh—hm.” 

Far from an eloquent answer, but he couldn’t really say he was all _that_ surprised, considering the sleep debt he’d racked up.

It did explain a few things though.

“So…” He glanced at Nate out of the corner of his eye, already anticipating how _he_ would take the news, then quirked an eyebrow in the doctor’s direction. “Are bathroom breaks a given, or are those contingent on good behavior, too?”

Nate stared at Lucy as if she’d just told them they’d slept into another century. 

“Yes, I’m sure the two of you could use one of those.” She replied. “We’ll pull out a bedpan for you.” She pointed to one assistant and nodded; he headed for the cabinets.

“Lucy- _y’shouldn’t have-_ ”

“Who is the Doctor here? Me?” She interrupted, glaring daggers in his direction. “You needed the rest, I am _not_ going to argue with you about it.” After a second, she added, “General.”

Chewing his lip, Nate accepted defeat and sat upright in the bed. 

Lucy had lifted the blanket away to get a look at his swollen leg, and was grimacing deeply, “I swear you’re the worst patient I have.”

Mal sighed and rubbed at his eyes—his headache was back with a vengeance, throbbing in synch with the more acute pain in his nose. It occurred to him then that he hadn’t actually _seen_ himself since being brought in. He wondered if it looked as bad as it felt from this side, and then whether it was worth it to ask for a mirror.

Sighing, Mal dropped his hand back to his lap and cast a look in Nate’s direction. From what he could see—what he _had_ seen when he’d helped Nate get onto the stretcher—Nate had definitely pushed his leg way too far. 

Which…wasn’t all Nate’s fault.

“Mmg—actually the ah, walkabout was my idea,” Mal half-mumbled to Lucy. “So uh—you should probably chew me out for that one…” 

Nate’s eyes flicked in Mal’s direction, only to squeeze shut with a startled jerk as Lucy put pressure against his leg in the effort to unwrap it. “ _Sh_ -it!” 

She paused, uneager to cause him pain. 

“Is there, ah, anyone here who thinks -” Nate managed a limp smile, “I wasn’t completely capable of coming up with that idea on my own?”

“Not really. You’re both fools.” Lucy quipped. She continued unbandaging the bite, more slowly this time.

“Y’know,” Mal grumbled halfheartedly, trying to draw Lucy’s attention again, “Just a thought—but maybe your patients would be more cooperative if you left them things like _water_ …and _clothes._ ” 

As if to drive home that second point home, Mal shivered. Shifting, he pulled his right leg up to his chest, tucking it under the blanket and curling his right arm around it.

“If you’d waited half an hour, you would have gotten water without all of this fuss.” Lucy replied. “You can have clothes when I’m assured you’ll _actually_ be able to walk around in them. Suppose you had started bleeding again in the night. Or even now - we would’ve had to go through all the trouble of undressing you again to get a look at this.” 

Mal sighed. Again. Leaned forward to carefully rest his temple against his knee, head tilted so the side so he could keep an eye on what Lucy was doing. When he spoke, it was slightly muffled by the angle and proximity of the blanket.

“What about socks then—can I at least have a pair of those?”

“I’m sure we can get you a pair of socks.” She acquiesced. Then sighed as she finally got a good look at the state of Nate’s wound. “Well, you haven’t torn any sutures. Luckily. But for the love of God, Nate, _do you see this swelling?_ ” 

The assistant returned with a ceramic bedpan and offered it to Mal. “Do you, uh, need any help-?”

Sitting up with some reluctance, Mal shot the assistant the kind of look that could strip the paint off a Corvega. “I got it,” he said, and accepted the bedpan with unbroken eye contact. “Some _privacy_ would be nice though.”

They cleared their throat nervously, glancing around the relatively open room. Looked to Lucy as though she might help, but the doctor was still preoccupied with Nate. “Er, I mean I can turn around, but…”

“Yeah,” Mal said, flatly. “That’d be great.”

Lucy set to work cleaning Nate's wounds, applying antibiotics, and rewrapping each. After offering him similar use of a bedpan, she hung his bitten leg by a sling, propped him up with pillows, handed him a mouthful of salt crackers, and moved on to Mal. Nate was - more or less - well behaved throughout. Though he grew quieter over the course of her maintenance.

Having now exhausted himself from the immediate shock, Nate's pain-frazzled thoughts picked back over the conversation from before. He struggled to put all the words back in the proper order. Bits and pieces came jumbled, or just skewed enough that he knew he wasn't remembering them verbatim. But Mal had - wanted _more,_ too _._

It was unsurprising somehow, and still alarming. Nate couldn't quite come to terms with the shift – or what that might mean when they finally sat down to talk things out. 

He desperately wanted this, realized the ache more every passing moment. Felt the urge to throw caution and doubt aside and give Mal the answer he’d hoped for. But Nate couldn’t possibly be so reckless. Especially not with a heart that meant so much to him. Fear was a bitter sensibility and it stung badly, but he clung to it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mal watched Lucy pass over a handful of crackers to Nate, then hand off some dirty bandages to the assistant. She moved to wash her hands, probably in preparation to examine him next.

Mal fidgeted and withdrew his left arm from under the blankets. For the first time he actually bothered to _look_ at it with more than a drugged, cursory glance. The worst of the damage was still hidden under wraps, and with the splints holding things in their proper places it was almost easy to ignore the severity of what had happened.

Except for one notable absence.

But when he let his eyes focus on the empty space, Mal found he couldn't summon up any strong feelings about it one way or another.

No anger, or regret, or loss, or sadness just—emptiness. Like it’d happened to someone else.

That—definitely didn't seem like the right reaction, but even after a few moments of poking at his own thoughts, Mal still felt eerily apathetic about the whole thing.

Frowning thoughtfully, Mal let his hand settle back in his lap, then looked up as Lucy made a brisk approach. He sighed. Shuffled around so he was sitting more or less properly in the chair, and prepared to be a good, cooperative patient.

At some point Nate’s attention had shifted to watch, expression opaque. 

Lucy crouched down to get a look at his swollen face. “How is your nose feeling? Better, worse, maybe the same? Any shortness of breath or difficulty breathing?”

“Feels like I got decked in the face,” Mal said dryly. Then worried the seam of the blanket between the fingers of his right hand, sighing. “It’s—about the same? Hurts—I can’t smell for shit, but uh, I don’t think those are life threatening.” 

Mal shrugged and fought the urge to reach up and poke at it, figuring that’d probably just get his hand smacked away. “…How’s it look?”

Vanity was about the lowest item on Mal’s list of priorities, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t a _little_ curious.

“Well I’m not going to bring you a mirror.” Lucy answered, the faint tug of a smile breaking her otherwise sour humor. “It will probably take another day or so to reduce the swelling enough for us to talk about surgery. But tell me if your breathing changes, or the pain worsens.”

Mal quirked an eyebrow. “Mm—encouraging.” 

Her comment piqued his curiosity though, and on impulse Mal reached up to brush his fingertips across the bridge of it. “Is it really _that_ bad—?”

_“Don’t_ -” Lucy started to reach out to stop his hand, “- touch it.” Though she managed a faint laugh in an attempt to lighten the sharpness of her tone. “It’s just swollen is all. What it needs right now is rest, so no poking around.”

With a sigh, Mal lowered his hand before he could follow the action all the way through. "Fine..."

“It’s - really not that bad.” Nate supplied earnestly, holding out a cracker to Mal. “You can already see improvement. ”

“Yes.” Lucy agreed. “You were very lucky, all things considered.” Her gaze followed the offering, but she made no move to disapprove it.

Mal accepted the cracker, and offered Nate a grateful smile, then hummed at Lucy's comment as he nibbled at the edge of the food. "Yeah."

Mal had been, he knew. They _both_ had. He should be grateful they made it out alive at all, but as certain realities started to sink in, he found that comfort wearing thinner than it had the previous night.

Focus shifting again, Mal frowned down at his left hand, still resting on top of the blanket covering his lap.

"To be honest I'm ah, more...curious how _these_ are gonna heal up. I can get by just fine with a fucked up nose, but—"

He let the rest of that sentence trail off, even just the implication leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Lucy nodded, sobering. "Of course. Your fingers were subjected to a great deal of trauma. These were not clean breaks, and it appears that afterwards they were tampered with further."

Nate had grown very still, again. He looked a bit ashen.

"They've been splinted," Lucy continued, gesturing to the work, “but to give them the best chance at healing without permanent damage, I'd like to operate. We can use pins to hold the bones in place for a couple of weeks, along with stimpaks to speed up the process. This limits the danger of malunions _and_ joint stiffness from prolonged casting. If you'll allow me to do that, and give them proper rest, then the prognosis is good."

All things considered, probably the best outcome he could’ve hoped for. It didn’t stop the sick twist in the pit of his stomach, or the distant flare of anger, but Mal forced himself to stay still. To keep that tide of misdirected frustration under control.

He nodded, then answered in a voice more noticeably subdued than before, “Yeah—surgery is…that’s fine. Whatever you need to do is—is fine.”

He was aware now that Nate was listening closely—still and attentive. Mal turned the cracker over in his hand, flaking crumbs onto the dingy blanket without any intention to eat it.

“Is that—all?”

In the wake of the afternoon’s events, tiredness weighed at Mal again, and the— _thing_ —whatever it was, between him and Nate, the talk they needed to have, once again loomed to the forefront of his thoughts. It was almost too much, on top of everything else, but Nate _wanted_ to talk, and he deserved that much at least.

He deserved…everything, but right now talking felt like the most Mal could offer.

"For now." Lucy replied. "I'll change the bandages, bring you some more crackers. If you keep them down alright, we'll let you walk the grounds. With pants, this time." Her expression softened. 

She held out a hand and set it against his knee. 

Mal watched the movement, but didn’t pull away from her touch. Just nodded.

"It won't be a complicated procedure - I've done it plenty of times before, and you'll have a couple of days to recover from your other injuries, first. In the meantime, just rest as much as you can."

“Yeah...” he said quietly.

Lucy glanced over at Nate, as if expecting him to add something. If he noticed, he gave no outward indication of it. And though he continued to watch Mal through weary eyes, Nate didn't speak. 

"If you have any questions, just ask." Lucy said. She stood and made her way back to the counter, where the assistants hovered.

In the space that followed, Nate struggled to decide the wisest course. He doubted anything he could say to Mal right now would help, and didn't feel any particular need to fill the air with more noise. Mal seemed overwhelmed enough already. Even now, the silence between them didn’t feel quite _wrong._ Just heavy. Like too much.

A double blade of guilt cut through Nate, that Mal was in this situation at all. Wrestling a tangle of uncertainty and affection, Nate fought himself over the urge to reach out. Fear of crossing the sudden, unknown boundary between friendship or something more kept his hand tucked away against the blanket. Fear of _wanting to cross_ , even moreso. Another failure on his part, for certain. 

But as he watched Mal slowly dismantle his cracker a moment longer, Nate’s frustration finally spurred impulse. Shifting, he placed a palm on Mal’s shoulder. In its own way, it was a promise to stay. No matter what, for as long as he needed Nate to. 

Everything else might change, but that never would.

Mal tensed, then just as quickly relaxed into the touch. Still staring down, Mal blinked at the remains of the cracker he’d systematically vented his agitation on.

_Oh—whoops._

Grimacing, he brushed the pile of crumbs onto the floor. Partly for the excuse to avoid looking at Nate, and partly because he _still_ needed something to do with his hands.

“It’s not—y’know, none of this is your fault, right?” Mal plucked another crumb from the blanket, dropped it over the side of the chair. Across the room, Lucy was gathering up a fresh thing of bandages. 

Nate didn’t answer, but his fingers squeezed softly against Mal’s shoulder, just enough to notice.

“I—” Mal cleared his throat again, suddenly wishing for more water, and added, “I wasn’t paying attention…I got careless. Maybe some of it was bad luck but…I know you did everything you could and more.”

Absolution was easy to offer, but hard to accept. Especially with the price paid on broad display. Nate shut his eyes for the span of a long breath. “Slugs had been on the prowl for a long time. She had to stumble across an opportunity eventually. And I -” His words caught, realizing he’d been about to take the blame again, “…I wish she hadn’t made it at your expense. ”

Nate shook his head, "...If it's not my fault, then it can't be _yours_ either." He answered, something careful and kind in his voice, "That's how this works, remember?"

“Well,” Mal started, glancing to the side sheepishly. “I uh—did kinda…jump through her window. That was a—pretty big whoopsie daisy to pick. But—” 

“You - _w-hat_ …?” Nate half-chuckled with a concerned smile, entirely unsure whether Mal’s comment was meant to be a joke.

He let out a careful breath. 

Mal still wasn’t sure he could accept he was a blameless party in all this. But all things considered, if they had to pick an outside target, Slugs seemed the obvious choice. 

Even now, the thought of her—all she and her pack had done, almost _taken_ , from both of them—had the choke-chain hold Mal kept on his rage slipping a fraction. The fingers of his right hand curled into the wool blanket, gripping it until his knuckles whitened, but he kept it under control. For Nate.

Nate watched the fist curl, and reminded himself again that none of this would be easy, or simple, or straightforward. As much as it frightened him, as much as each new shock brought with it the threat of a tidal wave against his senses (enough that even now, he trembled faintly), he found every step to be a little more intuitive. Not easy. Or painless. But they could get through this. They’d made it through so many things before. 

“Yeah,” Mal said, eventually. “I guess...between you and me, I’d uh—rather blame the dead psychopath, anyway.” Lip curling in a humorless grin, Mal picked at one last crumb he'd missed. “Least now she can’t bark back.”

Nate’s breath hovered for a moment. Something in his gut wrenched. A wound. Or a warning. Something angry that had turned caustic. He refused to give it too much thought. But the riptide of emotion had already caught him by the heel and pulled him under. “You know, to be honest, I’m - just _glad you’re ba_ ck.” His voice cracked and stumbled suddenly, tears nudging again at the corners of Nate’s eyes. “You’re _here_ and…” He sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head in a vain attempt at restraint. “That’s what matters. What I - what keeps coming back to me.”

At the change in Nate’s voice Mal looked over. Something in his expression softened, although the complicated knot of things in his chest tightened a fraction more. Mal wished he knew how to fix this—how to bleed out all these black, ugly things without just making it worse.

Reaching up with his good hand, Mal laid it over the one Nate still had resting on his shoulder. "Yeah...I'm—I'm glad you're here too," he said, softly. "And it's good to be back."

Deprived again of the ability to speak, Nate squinted his eyes shut, which did little to stop the resurgence of tears. Nothing to do now except ride it out. Each shudder wreaking through him struck like a physical blow, and bracing against them only seemed to send the fractured agony spiraling outward. He fought them until he felt sick, finally clamping down on his breath until dizziness arrived to bat away stronger sensations.

He needed Mal beside him - or _wanted_ him there, at least, _like_ a need. And didn’t really doubt that he wanted the same from Nate. Somehow that hurt, too. He was too lightheaded to understand why. Only that it felt unequivocally selfish to fall apart when he’d intended to comfort Mal. 

But there wasn't any blame in Mal's voice. There never was.

Mal gripped Nate’s hand tighter, hoping whatever reassurance he could offer through that connection would be enough. Mal _wanted_ to pull Nate into a hug—hold him, curl up next to him—but this new, tentative ground they were standing on left him unsure where those boundaries lay.

“Hey, it’s—it’s okay,” he murmured, quiet enough his voice wouldn’t carry. Lucy was already returning, probably having gotten tired of waiting on her patients to finish with their latest breakdown.

Sighing, Mal closed his eyes and tipped his head to the side, resting it against the hand still clasped over Nate’s. “We’re gonna be okay.”


	10. Jailbreak

Lucy finally interrupted the scene, though she seemed reluctant and refrained from comment except to direct Mal if necessary. 

An assistant offered Nate something for pain, which he refused out of hand. Eventually his tremors subsided, and by then Mal had been given another handful of crackers to eat.

They were brought clothes, next. And whoever had been sent to retrieve them must have had a sense of humor because they’d picked a pair of matching souvenir beans shirts. Big, comfortable ones that would be easy to move around in. They were thoughtful, too, because Mal had been provided with cotton pajama pants that could be gotten in and out of one-handed. The pale blue pjs were also fashionably printed with red rocket patterning. 

By the time they were dressed - ultimately more of an effort for Nate under Lucy’s hawkish hovering, he was looking more alert again. Even managed to relay a bit of playful badgering about being allowed to leave the infirmary in spite of his wounded leg.

Which was answered with a “No.”

And then several colorful variations of “Absolutely not.”

And finally, “As long as you stay in a wheelchair, accept med-x, and are supervised at all times.”

Mal would be allowed to supervise.

A brief discussion followed their release from the infirmary, and set the destination: the Castle kitchens, and the promised (and highly anticipated) soup. 

Once they reached the kitchen, Mal shooed off the assistant who had been assigned to help, promising one last time to stick to the plan the doctor had laid out for them. Although the assistant didn't seem particularly _convinced_ , they also didn’t argue, and left the pair to their own devices.

“So,” Mal said, glancing around the kitchen once they’d finally gotten rid of their babysitter. “ _Soup_. How uh—how do we want to do this?” Giving the wheelchair a glance out of the corner of his eye, but choosing not to state the obvious, Mal continued, “I can see if I can find someone to give us a hand—? The cook's gotta be around here somewhere still, right?”

“We can do this.” Nate replied, rather too nonchalantly to imply any serious consideration for how difficult it was going to be. Or at least if he had really considered logistics, he was reassuring himself with denial.

“All I need is a hand getting the fridge open, and maybe reaching some spoons.” The truth was, revisiting this moment meant returning to anxieties Nate was not yet entirely prepared to deal with. A tenacious thing, fragility. It seemed to have followed him out of the infirmary. He remained determined to smile past the nerves. Fear of another public breakdown haunted him worse than momentary physical discomfort or struggle. 

But it was more than that. This meal - it’d been meant for him and Mal only. And involving anyone else felt more like an invasion than a sensible request for help.

“ _Hm._ ”

Mal gave another unconvinced look between the two of them—Nate in a wheelchair and down an arm and Mal's own hand resting in the sling Lucy insisted he wear. Didn't really bode well for any potential cooking endeavours.

“So,” Mal said with dry skepticism, “You’re just gonna pick up that pot of soup and levitate it with your up-til-now unrevealed telekinetic powers? Which must be what you’re planning here, because I _know_ you’re not stupid enough to try and wrestle that pot out of the fridge and onto the stove one handed while _sitting in a wheelchair._ That’ll _definitely_ end well—soup all over the floor, the kitchen staff showing up to yell at us, your best and dearest friend in tears because the first real meal he gets to eat in _four fucking days_ is ruined, all for the sake of stubborn pride.”

Nate's brow furrowed over a brazen pout. "Well now I'm definitely not going to show you my super powers."

Rolling his eyes, Mal picked a likely direction and started to wander. “Yeah, okay—I’m gonna find someone with four working limbs and too much free time. Save us some heartache.”

" _Wait,_ Mal, it's-" Nate started to push himself out of the chair, seized by the fear Mal might be leaving the room entirely, and still not totally sold on the idea of fetching help. 

Mal stopped, whirling around in a mild panic, and held up his good hand in a warning gesture.

“Whoa, whoa— _Nate._ I’m—I’m not leaving,” Mal assured. “I’m just…gonna stick my head out the door, see if I can flag someone down. I won’t—” He swallowed, letting his hand fall back to his side and fidgeting with the hem of the oversized t-shirt he’d been given. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Except, Mal thought, he already _had_. In the infirmary, before he’d realized and gone back. And, in a less voluntary sense, three days ago when he’d failed to show for their first attempt at sharing this meal together.

...Maybe Nate’s worries weren’t that unfounded, all things considered.

Throat tight, he sank back into the chair. 

Something cold sank in the pit of Mal’s stomach, although he did his best to keep it from showing. “I just—look, if we try to do this ourselves we really _are_ gonna end up with a mess. It’s not like I wanna ask for help either but—”

Struck by the realization he'd reacted - panicked - out of turn, Nate looked away. Wrestled for a moment with his overstep, and what that meant, and how to stifle it. 

Even if Mal _had_ left Nate in the chair, it wasn't as if he'd be trapped. And Mal wouldn't disappear. Wasn't leaving Nate behind. They were here in the Castle, the safest place he could imagine. 

So he had no _good_ reason to be afraid. 

"Alright -", he managed. "You're right. I'm sorry. I..." Mal was hungry - which was what mattered, and it would be faster with aid. 

"It's - not pride." Nate finally added, running a hand through his hair. _Still need to wash that._ But he seemed to run out of words after, and offered no other explanation for his resistance.

“You—you don’t have to apologize,” Mal said quietly. “…I don’t like feeling stuck either.”

And maybe it wasn’t _exactly_ the same for Nate, but Mal had a feeling he understood, at least a little bit. He could sympathize with that brand of frustration and fear.

Nodding slowly, Nate finally flicked his eyes back toward Mal. Stuck. Stuck in a chair. Stuck in a maze of fears. Not the least of which was the shape of his affection for this man. Stuck having to weigh every gesture and word against inconvenient motivations, trying to filter out the selfish ones. 

“I promise I'm not gonna leave without you," Mal said, and offered Nate a careful smile. "If I can’t find someone here I’ll come back, and we can figure out what to do then. _Together_.”

Was it wrong to want that? His desire to be beside Mal was entwined too tightly with the paranoia of losing him, and Nate realized he wasn't sure how to separate the two. One meant building something, and hope, and gratitude. The other tasted bileish, and frenzied, and would drive him toward mercilessness. 

"Really, it's alright." He said, smiling back a little, "I can stay here while you go looking, if you don't see anyone. Promise not to misbehave in the meantime." Which did nothing to answer the question, but at least - hopefully - gave Mal enough to not feel bound by Nate’s faltering.

Even with Nate’s reassurances, Mal knew the shape of things between them had changed. A deep, ugly fear had grown in that space—something Mal didn’t know how to address.

The fear of being left. Of being trapped. Of _losing_.

Mal laughed a little, pure defiance in the face of that fear if nothing else. “Look, you’re not getting rid of me _that_ easily, okay?”

Nate lifted his hands in mock surrender - relieved, though a bit of shame stole the color from his laugh. He folded them back into his lap, entwined fingers curling and uncurling in some arbitrary sequence.

Keeping an eye on Nate, Mal slipped over to the doorway. He leaned around and poked his head out, and by some stroke of uncharacteristic luck, caught sight of someone right away. A woman he recognized—if only because she’d chased him out of the kitchens more than once for trying to snitch bread the cook had laid out to cool.

“Hey!” Mal called. “Um, Sheryll? Shannon?” Something that started with an ‘s’…

The woman stopped dead in her tracks. Turned on her heel, recognition and irritation flashing across her sharp features in unison. “ _You_. I thought you were still laid up in the infirmary. What’re you doin’ in the kitchens? _Unsupervised_.”

Mal grinned back insolently and said, “Got out early on good behavior—” She scoffed. “—so I’m loose on society again.”

“ _Ha!_ 'Good behaviour'. You wouldn’t know good behaviour if it snuck up and bit you on your bony little ass.”

Rolling his eyes, Mal added, “Yeah, well—the General and I require your assistance so—congrats—you’re being drafted for kitchen duty.” Mal leaned around the doorway and wiggled the pathetic looking bandage-mitten resting in his sling. “Unless you wanna clean soup off the floors, too.”

Another huff. A truly impressive amount of angry muttering, peppered with a few creative swears Mal took note of for his own future use.

Then Shannon…Sheryll— _Something-That-Started-With-An-S_ —hurried forward and swooped into the kitchen to preserve its sanctity.

Nate’s perplexed frown lit into a smile of recognition as she entered, followed by a scoff. “Hey, Rachel. Appreciate it. We uh… only have two good hands between us.” He twisted his wrist, the bandaging obvious. 

“I told him we could probably figure something out. But he doesn’t believe me.” Nate teased, shrugging with a pointed look in Mal’s direction, “Thinks I’m liable to spill the soup.”

 _Rachel_ offered another—somewhat less irritated—huff and bustled into the room, nodding at Nate as she headed towards the fridge. By now the kitchen staff knew about the soup, and it’d been made clear it was to be left untouched until the General decided otherwise.

“No offense, General, but I don’t trust _either_ of you in here.” Her eyes flicked towards Mal again, and then away. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the _last_ time.”

Snickering a little at the jab, Mal wandered back over to the stretch of counters opposite Nate, while Rachel pulled out the soup and carried it over to the stove. It took some awkward maneuvering, but he managed to lever himself up onto the countertop to sit.

Nate watched Mal hop onto the countertop, momentarily distracted by a pang of affection. Only to be further distracted by the fact that he was distracted, which led Nate to look away abruptly and ribbon his fingers tightly together once again.

"That was _one_ time." He emphasized, tilting his head toward her in a sad frown that wasn't really apologetic at all. "Think about all the quality confections we've made in here without _any_ \- er, serious, incidents."

Rachel _harrumphed_ loudly and gave her wood spoon a sharp rap against the side of the pot.

Careful not to strain his arm, he rolled himself over to 'supervise' the meal-in-progress. From where he sat now, Rachel mostly blocked Mal from view. Nate could tell he was there, wouldn't really want him out of sight, but a painful impulse urged Nate not to stare openly. As if to prove to himself he didn't need to, or out of some rooted misgiving that Mal needed to be shown Nate wouldn't hover or grab or insist.

Mal stared after Nate, frowning. Without any real reason to say anything, he didn’t try to stop him, although Mal couldn’t pretend he was happy to see him go. He settled for watching Rachel instead, letting his thoughts drift.

Mal’s birthday, the meal—somewhere along the way it’d slipped into that hazy liminal space, untethered from the normal flow of events. It felt laughable to think all this had originally been planned just a few days prior.

Everything felt like that.

Originally Mal thought it’d been a combination of exhaustion and painkillers making the world feel off, but now he wasn’t so sure. He kept waiting for things to go back to the way they’d been before. 

But they didn’t. Things _had_ changed—he and Nate had changed.

There was no reset button for this, and the marks Slugs left on the both of them weren’t going to be wiped away as easily as sharing a meal together.

Sighing, Mal abandoned his spot on the countertop in favor of moving to hover near Rachel, peering around her shoulder and into the pot of soup. She noticed before he got within three feet of it, and brandished her spoon in his face like a weapon. 

“Back— _back_! No vultures in the kitchen, it’ll be ready when it’s ready.”

Mal raised a hand with mild amusement, leaning away to avoid the errant jab she aimed in his direction. At least it was good to know _some_ things had stayed the same.

"Vultures?" Nate said, pouting as he tempted fate by wheeling a little closer to the pot. "You mean, 'starving _wounded_ soldiers', Rachel. Have some pity!"

Rachel turned on Nate, the spoon she’d been aiming at Mal whipping around to menace him instead. “You’re _going_ to be ‘wounded soldiers’ here in a minute if you don’t stay out from under my feet. Now the both of you, scoot!”

Taking advantage of Rachel’s momentary distraction, Mal ducked around and slipped a hand into the pot, snagging a piece of meat. He popped it in his mouth, grinning at Nate as he hopped back out of range when she whirled to face him again.

“Mm. Even good cold,” Mal said around the mouthful of food. Then, to Nate, “Molerat?”

Smirking at Mal's success, Nate backpedaled out of the utensil's immediate reach. "Sure is. With dandelions, tatos, and the _secret_ Ronan spice blend."

"Thanks, Rachel." He added with cheeky haste. His heart wasn't quite in the game, but at least there was a familiar comfort to the banter. And it was good seeing Mal have the spirit to make mischief.

With an appreciative hum, Mal made an ok-hand in Nate’s direction.

It really _was_ good. And not just because it was the first meal—and no, crackers did _not_ count, whatever Lucy said—he’d had in days. Nate was, without a doubt, an excellent chef. 

Taking a couple more steps away from Rachel, Mal licked his fingers and retreated beside Nate.

“Ah, memories.” Chuckling, Mal glanced down at his clothes, plucking at the leg of his pajama pants. “I’m glad the dress code ah—evolved a little, though.”

 _It's a bit too stuffy for my tastes._ Nate almost said, getting as far as reaching to tug his shirt collar before he realized that, in their new context-that-was-not-context, it might take on a new meaning. His gut knotted. 

"Yeah you're ah, really taking fine dining to a new level with that accouterment," He managed instead. "Never figured you for the posh type."

“Guess I’m just full of surprises,” Mal said, grinning.

 _Sure are,_ Nate thought, but left it, too, unsaid. The censorship almost hurt worse than the uncertainty itself

Still tending to the soup, Rachel shook her head at the pair, but seemed slightly more at ease now that they weren’t actively trying to sabotage her efforts.

Nate settled back to let her work, and as the quiet settled back over them, felt his nerves begin to static. There was no guarantee Mal would be ready to talk about - what’d happened, over soup. Even without an outward show of distress, Nate knew him well enough to worry. 

Uselessly, he found himself peering back through all their misadventured schemes, and wondered how many times Mal had asked for this - or almost asked for it - in ways Nate hadn’t recognized. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered. But he’d been deliberately blind, perhaps, as much to Mal’s fancies as his own. 

Or, maybe, this was only the impulse of a fearful moment for Mal. It could be.

There’d be no way of knowing until they spoke. 

And this particular angle didn’t _really_ matter, anyway, because there was _no_ outcome to this where he answered ‘yes.’ Not one. Not possibly. He insisted to himself, grabbing at the waterlogged certainties like a drowning man to flotsam. What he needed to be doing now was figuring out what to _say_ , when the time came _._ Not weighing back over what’d already been decided. 

Soon enough, Rachel rapped her spoon against the pot again, signalling the meal was ready. From there, they were relocated to a small table set up with a couple chairs, tucked into a more private corner of the kitchen. Not that anyone would have bothered them—once Rachel made sure that had everything they needed she all but fled, and Mal had serious doubts anyone would be interrupting them without warning.

Nate smiled briefly from over his bowl, more as a matter of protocol than anything. He hadn’t yet reached for his utensil, or even spread a napkin over his lap.

“Everything uh—look okay?” Mal asked, taking his own seat opposite where Nate’s wheelchair was pulled up to the table. Reaching out, Mal grabbed for his spoon, fiddling with it as a sudden wave of anxiety washed over him.

He hadn’t forgotten their promised talk. He’d been trying really, _really_ hard not to think about it if at all possible—but he hadn’t actually forgotten they needed to have it. Were _going_ to have it.

“Yeah.” Nate answered, a little halting. “Rachel knows what she’s doing.” Which was more than could be said for himself, right now. Would it be better to eat first? Should he bring it up at all? Maybe Mal ought to be allowed to set the pace. 

“It—” Mal hummed, considering the steaming bowl resting in front of him. “—looks really good,” he said, with only faint hesitation as he rethought what he'd originally planned to say.

Mal could— _almost_ smell it. Kind of. Which, he hoped, meant he’d be able to taste it, too. The bite he’d snagged earlier _had_ been good, but muted. Like trying to eat with a bad head cold.

Still. It was hot, hearty food, and a meal Nate had specially made for him. It could’ve tasted like dirt and Mal still would’ve eaten it and been happy to share that time together.

Nate smiled again. “Well they say presentation is nine-tenths of flavor. But yeah I, ah - I hope you like it.” Another equally inconvenient emotion bubbling up like tar in his throat, Nate looked anywhere but at the soups. Which ended up being a featureless corner of the dim kitchen. 

Mal rolled the spoon between his fingers, smiling faintly but unable to shake the tension that knotted between them. “Yeah—it’s really nice.” He gave the utensil one last flourish, then dipped it into the broth. “Thanks."

It shouldn’t feel wrong. A few days ago Nate wanted nothing more than to have this meal with Mal. Having spent seventy two hours fearing it might never be shared, now guilt and doubt tainted what would’ve been celebration. A black stain of hurt and self-accusation that couldn’t be expunged.

 _We’re together, though,_ Nate reminded himself. Which mattered. This was for Mal. Nate’s hand finally drifted toward the spoon. “ _Bon appétit._ ” He gestured, still not quite looking at the meal. “And, ah, happy birthday.”

A flicker of recognition cut through Mal at the words—the ironic echo of something Slugs’ had said, in a similar context. The hand gripping his spoon tightened. Mal's hesitation lasted through the next breath, then with more enthusiasm than before he gave the food another couple stirs.

Brow furrowing a fraction, Nate’s gaze ticked over the hand and then back to Mal’s face. 

Mal smiled in Nate’s direction—although the combination of nerves, awkward tension, and the cold, looming specter of past events robbed him of whatever appetite he’d had before and made even brief eye contact overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

“Oh yeah—” Mal answered, lamely. “Right. It is my…um—thanks—”

To save himself from further conversation Mal shoved a spoonful of soup in his mouth. Then winced.

Well. It was _hot_ , at least.


	11. The Talk

A little slower, Nate lifted his spoon to sip from. Barely tasted it past his own unease. Mal still wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

Okay. _Now_ the silence was getting awkward. 

If they wouldn’t be able to enjoy the meal in peace, maybe getting this out of the way now was better. Still, he hesitated to press Mal. 

“Listen.” Nate began, finally, “If you’d rather wait to - talk, that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be now.” 

If he was being honest, Nate still didn’t even know what to say. None of his carefully constructed explanations seemed adequate as the moment loomed.

Disappointingly, the soup had about as much flavor as it did aroma. Frustrated, Mal prodded at it again before forcing himself to take another (smaller, more cautious) sip while considering Nate’s offer.

He didn’t _want_ to talk. But if they put it off, Mal was going to lose the nerve to do it at all. Better to get it over with. Like ripping off a bandaid.

Sighing, Mal let the spoon rest in his bowl, but didn’t take another bite. He did look at Nate though. Tried to meet his eyes.

“No we should—we should talk. Now. I want to talk about this.”

Nate inhaled softly. Held it. But he met Mal’s gaze without reluctance. “Alright.” 

The heavy melancholy that’d descended over Mal days ago pressed down, an uncomfortably insistent weight. Mal rubbed at his eyes, still aware of a headache that had never actually gone away. He was starting to regret not asking for something more for that, now.

A punctured pause followed, Nate’s heart clenched with the sensation of looking over a sheer ledge before plummeting off.

“You’re my best friend, Mal. I mean that with everything in me. And I’m sorry for how badly I handled this before.” Nate began. “I’ll try to make up for it, now. So…” The wrong question to ask sprang to his lips, though it nagged him, and he hesitated for a moment. He had no practical need to know how long the interest had been held. His chosen question was no easier, but at least justifiable. Asking Mal to bare his motives would mean doing the same in turn, and both of those were frightening. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair, Nate swallowed. “You’d think it wouldn’t be this hard. Maybe we oughtta start with what we want.”

Mal nodded, though his chest felt like it was filled with glass shards.

“I—I want _you_." The hand holding his spoon clenched, and metal clinked against the edge of the porcelain. Frowning, Mal let go and pulled his hand back to rest in his lap, fingers tangling in the fabric of his pant’s leg.

“But if you need time, I’ll wait. As long as you want. A week, or a year, or ten, or a hundred. And if you don’t ever want anything more than what we have now, as friends, that’s okay too, we'll figure it out. I just—can’t keep pretending I don’t—because I—”

Swallowing, Mal dropped his gaze back to the tabletop. The terror of rejection, a thousand old, ugly wounds made themselves known again, and the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to shrink away. To not have to say this, almost as much as he needed, desperately, to say it.

“I love you, Nate.” The words escaped in a breathless rush, soft, fragile but loud enough to span to the distance between them. As soon as they were voiced, Mal went still. Kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop, the overwhelming fear that he’d done something terribly, irreversibly wrong crashing down on him.

A second armageddon could erupt outside in that moment and Nate wouldn't have heard it, or even been able to stir from his chair.

He set his spoon down. It made a dull rapping sound against the wood. He didn’t hear that either.

Mal remained frozen in place, braced with the same unquantifiable fear that needled through every nerve in Nate’s body. 

He’d planned for infatuation. Rushes of adrenaline. Casual curiosity. A puppy love, and wondering if there could even be more. All of these, tentative proposals he could explain away as misplaced esteem or a certain loneliness. Temporary. Reasons not to rush into blissful disaster. 

But at no point had he prepared himself for the words that spilled like moth wings from Mal’s mouth. Not _love_. Not certainty.

What _Nate_ felt for Mal would neither waver nor pass. Nate knew himself well enough for that. Once opened, the door couldn’t be shut. And if Mal would pledge a century over his confession, they found themselves in a place Nate couldn’t quantify, guard against - or make any sense of at all, actually. They were in love. Both of them. 

It caught him so unprepared, in fact, that for a moment he lost sense of his tongue.

Nate tilted back in his wheelchair, a smile that was not a smile on his face. And laughed. Once. Loudly, for sheer surprise.

Mal flinched like Nate had struck him. 

In the next second he curled into himself further, shame burning hot up the back of his neck, across his face, plainly visible even under the mottled bruising. Every muscle in his body pulled taut. He was a held chord—struck, trembling.

 _Terrified_.

Mal had known, from the start, this wouldn’t end in his favor. That it would’ve taken a miracle beyond the scope of his imagination to have Nate returning that desire. Had come to terms with it, months ago.

Mal told himself he was ok, because just being here—having Nate, in any capacity—was enough. And it was. None of that had changed.

But—this...

Mal didn’t trust himself to open his mouth. He kept still. Braced for whatever would come on the heels of Nate’s initial reaction. Instinct dictated he apologize, try and take it back, retreat, but the words caught in Mal's throat, choking him.

Nate's alarm fluttered only briefly above his rising panic before plummeting again. Mal's distress gripped like an anchor. And it was obvious, of course, that laughing wasn't the right thing to do - though Nate hadn't meant it to be derisive. Hadn't meant to laugh at all. 

He chuckled again, softer this time, wounded even, still staggering through his surprise. _"Mal-"_

There was no way Nate could sit here idly. Starting to lean forward, he realized he wouldn't be able to reach, not with Mal collapsing inward.

Leaning heavily on the table, Nate quickly found his feet. He paused for a moment to test the strength of his legs. Then crossed over as if possessed, past the soups and through the spearing uncertainty between them. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing, falling in love with a fool like me?" He teased, voice strained, at a loss. Not the right words, either. None of his words were right. None of his assumptions. All he had left were hopes and fears.

Nate's teeth clenched as his breath caught. He bent on one knee beside Mal's chair. Reached for a hand to hold. Somewhere along the way tears had found him again. They hovered, ready to fall.

"Mal, it's okay." He managed, glancing away, lost for words through an agonizing moment, like a song cut off through the middle before an audience who mattered. 

He was a disaster. And Mal loved him. 

Mal registered movement, the sound of Nate’s voice, but everything else dissolved into static. He shook his head, the motion faint, jerky. Overwhelmed and confused, he refused to look in Nate’s direction. Stayed motionless, except for the erratic curling and uncurling of the fingers bunched in the fabric of his pajama pants.

Mal didn’t understand. What Nate wanted, what to do—how to fix this.

With a strangled noise that might have been an attempt to speak, Mal finally gave in to impulse. He drew his legs up onto the chair, tucked tight to his chest, and pressed his face against his knees. His good hand he shoved into the mess of his hair, fingers tangling in it with savage indifference.

If Nate had kept any lingering doubts about whether Mal's confession was sincere, he discarded them now. A deep, longing affection ached in his chest, torn to pieces at the sight of Mal so distressed. Enough to blot out the paralyzing fear of doing something wrong. Instinct urged Nate to press a hand to the wound, and feel the shape of it.

Because this was Mal, who he loved, _loved_ , and who _loved him back_. And Nate realized, like a thunderclap, that he couldn't be frightened then. No matter what came of this. Maybe he was deluded. Insane. It could be true. Too much altogether had happened tonight. He'd have to trust in madness. Ever practical, Mal had taught him to believe in such things.

"It's okay." Nate breathed again, so softly it might go unheard.

"I'm right here." Sliding forward onto both knees, ready to withdraw if it seemed unwanted, he let his hand rest against Mal's shoulder. Then leaned into the gesture, letting the stroke brush down his back. No request or demand, just an offering of comfort.

The touch registered, and Mal felt the tension locking his body climb another notch. But Nate was gentle. There wasn’t any anger in his gesture—no demand for anything from Mal. 

A few seconds passed before some of the painful tightness in Mal’s chest and shoulders eased. Not _relaxed_ , but pulled back from the edge of snapping under the strain. Enough to breathe.

When that was not refused, Nate repeated the gesture, petting gently enough not to aggravate any bruises, but still enough to feel. And after - who knew how long, a minute, or ten, he only waited until it seemed right - he lifted his hand to brush through Mal's hair with the same slow, certain, careful attention.

Nate wondered just how long Mal had been pretending to be ‘fine.’ When had their roles first become reversed.

"You've got me." Nate continued, almost a babble, now. Nerves left his hands trembling faintly, too many possibilities now at his fingertips, and he couldn't comprehend a single one. "And I've never once regretted it. Not ever, not a single time since the day we met. I haven’t told you, Mal – it felt wrong to say it – but I should have said it a hundred times already, only I'm a fool. I- I _need you_ , and I - think I’ve needed you from the very start. It scared me - scared me to death.”

Nate pressed his forehead against Mal’s arm, eyes shut. This was _definitely_ madness. A freefall. “And we’ve been through a lot. Too much. But we’ve always had each other. Catching frogs and terrorizing the kitchen staff and – Mal every good thing in my life since the day we woke up in that vault has been better because of you. I never wanted to put what we have at risk. Not for anything.”

“…And then you told me _that,_ ” Nate issued a sharp breath through the nose, smiling under a stream of tears. “So what am I supposed to do with all these very good reasons why we shouldn’t fall in love? If the bets have already been placed and I - …Whatever this means for us, we’ll figure it out.” 

Mal listened, even if actual words were out of reach still. His breathing slowed, evened out. The static started to recede. Like a tide pulling back, some of the bleak panic clouding his mind ebbed.

The tenderness and affection Nate offered even after Mal had so thoroughly screwed this up he knew was completely undeserved.

It felt wrong to want this. To _need_ it, from Nate. Because, Mal realized, he did. Like he needed air, or sunlight, or water. 

Mal had been alone for a long time. Lonely for even longer than that. But he hadn’t realized just how much that could _hurt_ until Nate came along and shone a spotlight on all those dark, empty places—picked apart every defense Mal had to keep those feelings at bay. Mal’s needs were selfish and ugly and kept spilling over at every turn no matter how much he tried to keep a reign on them.

And now—

Mal couldn’t pretend. He couldn’t go back. Nate was the foundation he’d built this new life on. Without Nate, the entire structure fell apart.

An undefined amount of time passed before Mal finally pulled himself together. Nate still pressed against him, his warmth a shocking contrast to the coolness of Mal’s own skin.

Stiffly, Mal lifted his head. Uncurled in painful motions, now aware enough to realize that _maybe_ trying to turn himself into a human pretzel had been kind of a stupid idea. Mal tilted his head to look at Nate. Felt a surge of affection and grief and _love_ so strong that if he hadn’t already been sitting it probably would’ve knocked him on his ass.

“I-I’m sorry,” Mal said, quietly. Nate probably didn’t want apologies, but it would’ve been wrong not to at least try. He wasn’t sure what else he could say anyway, in the wake of all that.

Tentatively, Mal reached out, hoping to take Nate’s hand.

He reached back, weaving his fingers between Mal's and looking up to meet his gaze.

A kind of fog had settled over Nate, though adrenaline still pooled in his chest. Aware, now, of the implications it carried, he pressed his lips to the back of Mal's hand. Nate shut his eyes. Saltwater dripped against pale freckled skin.

In so many ways, he already belonged to Mal. It was a choice, made every day willingly. 

Letting the kiss linger, Nate slipped it down to the join of Mal's wrist before opening his eyes again and leaning back - though their fingers stayed entwined. "Don't be sorry. Not for this. And I - I won't be either."

He didn't _say_ ‘I love you;’ it didn't seem right. Like maybe it would just be noise, now. When those words meant so much more. And if Nate was going to make such a powerful statement out loud, he'd make it on a clear night, with nothing else between them. He’d make it without any room for regrets.

Mal nodded. He hated not knowing what to say. The feeling had plagued him his whole life, ruined so many good things for him, but he wished, just this once, he knew what to do _here_.

When Nate sat back again, Mal fought the desire to follow. But the line between them still felt muddy, and he’d done enough already without overstepping again. So Mal ignored the ache in his chest at the tenderness of Nate’s kiss and took a careful breath. Gave Nate's hand a reassuring squeeze.

Nate squeezed back, warmth behind the tears still reflecting in his eyes. And there was so much _more_ he wanted to say, enough to fill a novel with. For tonight, he’d be content to hold Mal and simply allow them to be true. Tomorrow, in daylight, they could begin again.

At least now the worst of the panic was fading, although the aftermath left Mal dizzy and weak. Nothing seemed to sink in. It just…sat. Hovering on the surface of his consciousness like a slick of oil on water.

Frowning, Mal shifted to get a better look at Nate. Remembered, then, they were supposed to be _resting_. Nate wasn't even supposed to be using his leg at all and here he was, kneeling on the floor. _Shit_.

" _Mmg_. Lucy's...gonna have a conniption...if we keep this up. We should, uhm..." Mal trailed off then, because he didn't really know _what_ they should do, only that whatever they were doing here probably wasn't it.

“Probably finish these soups…” Nate supplied, clearing his throat and finally managing to pull his gaze from Mal to look at the table, though their fingers remained tied. 

The bowls were still warm… more or less. Maybe trying for soup tonight had been as ill advised as their chosen topic. But Nate found himself too tired, _too_ bare, to regret the effort, now. Unlike so many pivotal leaps, there was comfort at the end of this one. His only worry was for Mal. Who still seemed dazed. Uncertain.

Looking back at him, Nate clasped Mal’s palm in both hands. “Look. It, ah…” He swallowed. “It can be _you and me_ , forever, i-f you want that. I’ll have to take this slow. But I’ll be here. We can figure it out. Promise. Is that enough for tonight?”

Impulse finally won.

Mal untangled his hand from Nate and pulled him into a hug. Tucked his face into the crook of Nate’s neck and closed his eyes. Sliding his hand up into the base of Nate’s hair, Mal threaded his fingers through it, then pressed a kiss against the fluttering warmth of Nate’s pulse.

A cold thread of shock shuddered through Nate, inhaling half a breath before he could catch it. 

“Of course I want that,” he murmured, relief and affection weighing down the words. “We can…take it as slow as you need. I just—I wanna be here, with you, Nate— _forever_.”

For a moment, in the brush of Mal’s lips and persuasion of his touch, Nate lost himself. A thousand surrendered desires, only a moment ago offered back, now surged against the cage of his eager heart. And he wondered what it might mean to be surrounded by Mal, with no space between at all. 

_Too soon._

The sharp serration of caution urged Nate to hold back, enough to bring him down to earth a second later. But not enough to stop him from floating, as he leaned into the embrace and made a stammered hum against Mal’s ear, momentarily lost for eloquence. “Y-eah, okay.”

_I love you._

Not in half measure. Forever, inextricably, no matter what. And Nate knew he should still be petrified of that reality, of what it could mean or cost, but he wasn’t. He had Mal in his arms. “You’re gonna make your nose even more crooked, you keep this up.” Nate mumbled teasingly, lifting a tentative hand back to curl through the mess of Mal’s hair.

Mal huffed a laugh, but relaxed into Nate’s touch as fingers brushed into his hair. If not for the angle, it would be too easy to fall asleep like this.

“Still worth it,” he mumbled, but tilted his head more to the side to take off some of the pressure. Mal stayed that way, letting himself have the moment as long as he could justify. Until falling asleep seemed less and less hypothetical, and worries outside himself nagged more insistently.

Nate shifted reluctantly, trying to find a better position for his knees against the stone floor. 

“Shit, your leg—you're gonna end up pulling those stitches...”

“I’m not running a marathon.” He breathed back with a shaky chuckle, still uneager to let the moment go. 

Mal sighed, then wiggled partway out of Nate’s grasp so he could get a better look at the damage. Lucy really was going to lock them in the infirmary. Mal couldn’t say he’d blame her, at this point.

“Here, let me—” Mal let his gaze flick to the discarded wheelchair. He didn’t move to stand, but when he looked back to Nate the request was clear. As much as Mal wanted to linger here, the outside world was already intruding on them again, dragging practicality along for the ride.

Reality was such a pain in the ass sometimes.

Nate frowned back at the chair. But though he was relatively sure the stitches were safe, kneeling here did the wound no favors. Even now it throbbed in protest. A simple thing to ignore for Mal’s sake. It wouldn’t stay simple much longer, if Nate continued to press. They needed food, and rest, and a chance to breathe.

“Tch, already trying to get rid of me.” He quipped mildly, “ _I-_ i see how it is.”

Mal rolled his eyes, but had to set aside a similar pang at the thought of separation, however short it ended up being.

“We can sit on the same side of the table, you know. I’ll even let you hold my hand—er…hm.” Mal took stock, then let out a sheepish chuckle. “Ok—well, we can sit really close, at least."

Nate managed a lopsided grin, finally letting Mal go with the assurance of a swift reunion. "I think I can accept that compromise."

He slipped out of his chair and stood, more stiff than he normally would have been. But by the time he retrieved Nate’s chair and wheeled it back to their side of the table, Mal felt a little better. Tired. Achy in other places, but—better.

“Your chariot awaits,” Mal teased, offering a steadying arm for Nate to hold.

"How prompt of you." Nate ployed back with a debonair flourish. Or at least, it might be debonair, if his hair weren't a sooty bird's nest, and he didn't kneel on the floor dressed in bruises and fatigue. He looked rather like he’d just been stuffed down the chimney. But his eyes were soft. Playful, even.

They made quite the pair. Mal had all the charm of an ashlad, at once a hopeless case and the promise of something grand. More than enough to make one fragile heart swell.

Taking Mal's arm, Nate managed to pull himself halfway upright to reach the chair, and promptly settled in. Tapped the fingers of both hands against their corresponding legs. "Shall we continue our feast?"

Mal gathered up Nate’s bowl and spoon, scooted things around to make sure there was space for them to eat on the same side, and took his own seat next to Nate.

“Thanks.”

He nodded and reached for his spoon again. “It uh—this really is nice,” Mal said as he took a sip of his now mostly-cold soup. He still couldn’t taste it really, but at least it was cool enough to eat safely. "As far as feasts go, it's a good one."

“The company’s not half bad either.” Nate said, nudging against Mal with a shoulder. Even cold, it still had flavor. They’d had far worse meals between them on the road. 

Grinning, Mal leaned with the motion, then carefully bumped Nate back. He sipped at his meal, taking it slower than he normally would have, but gradually some of his appetite returned. 

By now the toll of the night was beginning to make itself known. Though relieved, Nate found his gut in a knot, vertiguous and insistent. What-ifs never stayed at bay for long. He found himself wanting nothing more urgently than to curl into a mess of blankets with Mal pressed close, and rest until daylight in the security of an embrace. A wary need, at once familiar and foreign. He hoped for it all the same.

For now, though, he’d finish eating, and side by side would be enough.

By the time Mal finished most of his food, fighting against the lure of sleep had become the most pressing challenge. Stifling a yawn, he pushed back the mostly-empty bowl, dropping the spoon into it with a soft clink.

“Think I’m done for now,” he said, casting a sideways glance to Nate. "And I know we just got up but...ah...I'm pretty worn out already." Ready to nod off in his soup, more like.

Fidgeting a little, Mal left the rest go unsaid. He knew how Nate could get about this kind of thing, but he also hoped, just this once he wouldn't have to argue it.

“Rest is the best thing for you.” Nate agreed, lifting his bowl to slurp the last bit of broth before setting it down beside Mal’s. “And since I’m supposed to stay under your _constant_ supervision,” He dragged the words out in a heavy sigh, feigning resignation as he let his temple rest against Mal’s shoulder, “I guess we’ll have to share a bed. How else will you know if I try to get up and wander off to attend my duties?” 

A faint prickle of anxiety laced Nate’s fingers at the game, worried then whether he’d overstepped. They’d spent many cold nights together, and his touch now was no more invasive than others they’d shared before. But it’d been a long evening, and the shape of things might change - _expectations_ might change. 

Trying—and failing—to smother a grin, Mal leaned into Nate. “I mean, there’s really no other choice, is there,” Mal answered. “It’s the only way I can be _sure_.”

This time, Mal didn’t quite manage to stop a yawn before it escaped. He didn’t want to push Nate, and Mal would’ve gladly lingered here any other time but—

“ _Hrm._ I guess if you’re done we can—?” Which brought up another good point. Mal frowned, pensive. "Um...actually, where _are_ we going?"

Nate blinked at the empty bowls. “Well, I kinda thought we’d go back to my quarters.” He supplied, more confident in his playfulness than before - encouraged by Mal’s banter. “Unless you prefer the gurneys.”

“I mean, they _were_ pretty comfortable,” Mal said. “Hard to beat that kind of spartan luxury.” 

Chuckling, Nate shifted his cheek and let his gaze drift down toward Mal’s fingers. 

Reaching up, Mal scratched idly at his chin. “Seriously though, I ah—wouldn’t mind some more med-x, since we’re gonna be trying to rest here. But I guess we could have someone bring that to the room...” 

He grimaced to himself, then let his eyes flick to Nate, anticipating an argument. “We could both use some of that by now, I think. Pretty sure that was one of Lucy’s conditions anyway—gotta make sure we take our medicine, right?”

Lip tugging downward, Nate pulled away a bare fraction. In some ways he remained predictable. “She only had me take some for our jailbreak, here. I’m not hurting bad enough to need any.”

Irritation stirred, like ripples across still water. “Yeah, well I _am_ , and I’m not gonna be able to rest unless I know you’re taken care of too.”

Bracing for debate, he leaned back to meet Mal’s gaze fully, eyes wide under a perplexed brow.

Mal shot Nate a look—the kind that promised he could be just as stubborn if Nate tried to push this. “And don’t try to keep feeding me that bullshit ‘it doesn’t hurt’ line. That might work on _them—_ ” Mal flicked a hand in a vague gesture outside of himself. “—but it doesn’t work on _me_. So knock it off.”

To his credit - or detriment, Nate hesitated. Searched Mal’s face. Didn’t look away. They’d had this conversation so many times before. Was it supposed to change now, too? “...Of course it hurts. But it’s not bad enough for me t-” Nate shook his head, glanced aside. “You don’t have to worry. I just need to be alert. If something happens and I’m _not_ , that’s worse than a little soreness tomorrow.”

“Alert for _what_?” Mal shook his head. “We’ve got the entire Castle garrison looking out for us, and we’re sleeping behind stone walls at least six feet thick. Doesn’t get any safer than this.”

Anything. Everything. Which was exactly the problem. It had always been the moments Nate allowed himself to drop his guard that unforeseen horrors came knocking the door down. Traitors or spies or an injury gone unnoticed too long. The burdens stuck in his throat, weights he was unwilling to lay on Mal’s shoulders. 

Letting out a frustrated exhale filled with equal parts worry and tiredness, Mal searched for Nate’s gaze. “I’m here, okay? I’m back and I’m _safe_. And tonight I need to rest knowing _you’re_ okay—” Something a fraction softer slipped into Mal’s expression as he continued, “And that means you taking your medicine and getting a full night’s sleep.”

They’d had this conversation _so many times before._ And Nate rarely managed to out-stubborn Mal. But he held out a little longer, just in case. “Mal… I’ll be okay without the drugs.”

“You’re still gonna play the stubborn card even when it hurts us both, and doesn’t gain anyone anything. _Really—_?” Mal huffed quietly. “You won't even do this for my peace of mind, so I can rest?”

Nate shut his eyes, a labored sort of wince. “That’s not fair.” He replied, subdued. If it allowed Nate to keep Mal safe, it was worth a little personal discomfort. “Of course your peace of mind matters to me.” _There’s more to it than that._

He debated arguing further. But fatigue was a powerful opponent, and Mal’s sense of ease a stronger motivator. Only here, in the Castle, where Lucy, and Preston, and a dozen other allies could be counted on, did the delicate balance of Nate’s nerves tip in favor of surrender. 

With a heavy sigh, he let his head tilt the other way, still not meeting Mal’s gaze. “But fine,” Nate breathed softly, “if it’ll help you rest. A little more won’t hurt.” _Hopefully._ And maybe a guard or two stationed outside the door, to mitigate the unavoidable risk.

Mal relaxed at the answer, then leaned into Nate, gently bumping his shoulder. “...Thanks.” 

Maybe one of these days Mal’s insistence would finally stick.

“You’re incorrigible and it seems I can deny you nothing.” Nate lamented wrly, swallowing back his unease. Quiet again, he added, “I just - want to be sure you’re safe...” Deep down, he knew that would ultimately take time. A _long_ time. Maybe longer than it would have before, with what new hopes tied them together now. 

“I know,” Mal answered. “I want to make sure you’re safe too.” Which was why he kept an eye on Nate and tried to make sure he wasn’t running himself into the ground, feeding anxieties that were impractical at best.

He didn’t see how this was safer, really. But he didn’t argue again. Mal needed rest, and Nate could find other ways to reassure himself of their safety, even if it wasn’t ideal.

"We should probably find some of the staff we haven't scared off to give us a hand." Mal chuckled a little. "Or ah, maybe _two_ hands would be better."

“Won’t that be a trick.” Nate answered, reaching an arm up behind Mal to run fingers through his greasy hair. 

_Still need to bathe._ A task for tomorrow. So they could take their time to soak away so many built in stains. Nate made a mental note to have a hot bath drawn for Mal, when he seemed less likely to fall asleep sitting up.


	12. Crazy He Calls Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 😘

It took some maneuvering getting out from the table, but between the two of them they managed to get Nate in his wheelchair back to the hallway. Nate proved more or less a hopeless case at steering himself past any kind of obstacle. 

Not too long after, one of the night watch came through, and found themselves conscripted as a temporary nurse.

When Nate directed them toward his quarters, they made no comment. They didn’t have to. The look on their face served well enough to expose their thoughts. And Nate might have dismissed that alone, but a few stilted attempts at conversation along the way solidified his suspicion. 

He let them go without orders to keep quiet, which he’d doubted would be followed and would've been only _more_ likely to fuel intrigue. Instead he sent them to fetch Lucy with medicine, and a night guard for the door.

“I suspect we’re going to spark a few rumors.” Nate commented once the heavy oak clamored shut, shuffling a bit tentatively onto the bed - mindful now of the growing ache in his stitches.

Mal shrugged, still hovering at Nate’s side.

“Mmn—probably,” Mal said, blinking once Nate’s statement actually sank in. “Is that…are you okay with that?”

People loved to talk, and that meant gossip was going to fly. If the two of them didn't say something, the Castle's residents would just cook up a dozen different stories on their own.

Mal wasn't sure what he felt about that. Then decided unless Nate took issue, he'd worry about it in the morning.

“It doesn’t bother me more than any other rumor.” Nate replied. “Less, maybe - they wouldn’t be entirely wrong to suppose.” He managed a winded chuckle. Something about acknowledging the moment loosed warmth in his chest. “Ah - but if you’re worried about talk, we can come up with something.”

Mal shrugged again, indifferent.

Resting against the bed, he toed off the soft, slip on shoes he’d been given to wear out of the infirmary. The socks stayed, as did the rest of his clothes, but he undid the sling, letting his left arm hang loose at his side. The insistent throbbing in his hand was back in full force, nearly overshadowing the other impressive tally of hurts demanding his attention.

Asking for another dose of medicine for the both of them had been the right call.

“You need any help there?” Mal glanced to Nate, ready to move if needed.

“Think, if I just take it at a snail’s pace I’ll be alright.” Nate huffed through gritted teeth. 

A little too much weight on his bad arm sent him buckling into the mess of blankets with a “pfoof” of feeble surprise. 

He lay facedown in the fabric and muffled, “Actually, you can help.”

Managing to disguise his chuckle as a shallow cough, Mal hurried over to get Nate turned the right way up, then guided him to a more comfortable position.

Nate did his best to be useful, limping through the effort, finally settling amidst the calico tangle of his bedsheets. 

“Better?”

“Thank you.” He answered, extracting a quilt to lay over his legs. Unlike the meticulous order he maintained in most other aspects, Nate’s bed was a magpie's hoard of salvaged comfort. Pillows lay strewn in every shape and color, meshed with throws of various makes, nothing folded neatly over the mattress. It was not apparent where the ‘front’ of the bed was, if it existed at all.

Beside it was a nightstand littered with trinkets - most of them gifts from Mal. Rocks and feathers and such small things that could be slipped into a pocket discreetly. Nate never parted with them. 

The rest of the room was sparsely decorated - a perpetual work in progress. But it had a couch, a fireplace, a small desk for late nights and a bookshelf beside it. A few threadbare rugs relieved the chill from the stone floor. In its own way, it was cozy. 

Nate’s gaze slid back to Mal. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

Mal shrugged and let his attention focus on the nightstand. A smile tugged up one corner of his lip as he ran his fingers over the surface of a brightly colored rock. He knew Nate kept them, but Mal wasn’t sure it would ever stop surprising him to see just how much Nate cared about all these little trinkets.

“I’m ah—I’m alright,” he answered, looking away from the nightstand. With his good hand, he reached up and rubbed at his eyes. “Just tired. Sore.” Mal trailed off, shrugging again.

If Nate were more impulsive, he might have kissed Mal then. At least on the cheek. 

Mal sank down onto the edge of the mattress. Hummed appreciatively at the softness of it, and ran his hands over one of the blankets. Nate’s bed seemed more like a nest really, which had Mal’s seal of approval through and through.

“I like it.”

All of it—the bed, the room, the company. Mal didn’t say that all outloud, but he hoped Nate could read between the lines.

“It’s nothing much.” He answered with a quirk of a smile, “But it can be yours, too. If you want. Make yourself at home.”

Mal had always been mindful of Nate's space here, but really the room didn’t feel like anything other than a place to pass through with only him using it.

“It really is nice," Mal said. He eased himself the rest of the way into the mess of bedding, wincing as his left side grumped about the strain, but relaxed again once he was settled, tucked up close to Nate. “But ah—the company’s what really makes it.”

Nate hummed, reaching his good arm out to wrap behind Mal. “Agreed.” 

With a deep inhale, he shuffled under the blankets to fit more neatly beside Mal. They had a few minutes yet before Lucy would get here. Enough time to breathe. 

_I love you._ Another moment where it went unsaid, but Nate felt the notion strongly all the same. 

It was easy to relax into Nate’s embrace. Safe. Against his better judgement, Mal let his eyes shut. Just for a second. To rest, until Lucy showed up with the meds. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, although he should’ve known better now.

A soft rap at the door startled Mal awake. He blinked against the dimness of the room, heart racing. Pushing himself up on an elbow, he squinted towards the door as the events of earlier started to slot back in place.

Thrown from a hazy dream, Nate had already scrambled halfway upright. It took him longer to remember they were safe. Even then, he seemed reluctant to drop his guard. An arm still draped protectively around Mal. 

Right. They'd specifically sent for the doctor. They were in Nate's bedroom, resting. Waiting for...

"Uh...Lucy?" Mal called out, tentatively.

The old oak creaked open, and Lucy entered, carrying a lantern in one hand and a leather bag in the other. “Room service.” She chuckled, turning from pushing the door to finally see them.

Paused. The door hung open behind her.

“Hey, Lu.” Nate managed, allowing himself to lay back down into the nest. He kept his hand brushed against Mal’s hip. 

“...Did I wake you?” She chose finally, remembering to shut the door.

“Yes,” Mal said. Then, “I mean—no. It’s fine, we asked you to come, just—” He scrubbed a hand across his face, only to jerk his arm back with a pained growl when he reached his nose. “Nng— _fuck_."

That was _not_ getting any less frustrating. If it wasn’t for his hand Mal would’ve asked for the stims already and been done with it.

“I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said, but I have to anyway - leave that bruising alone.” Lucy admonished lightly, frowning at his pain.

“Yeah, because I did that—on purpose,” Mal grumped, shifting again so he was sitting up in a more comfortable position. “One hundred percent intentional, with the added benefit of pissing you off.” 

“I’m not angry. Just playing nanny for two stubborn idiots.”

Approaching, she frowned again at the lack of space on the nightstand, and set her lantern on the floor beside the bed. “How was your dinner?” She asked. From the bag she withdrew a solution of something sterile and a rag to douse with it. 

Mal cast a furtive glance towards Nate before realizing he wasn’t going to be any help. He shrugged, started to touch his face—again, _goddammit_ —and aborted the action with a frustrated sigh.

“It was fine. Amazing. Best soup I've ever had in my life.”

Nate’s palm spread up against Mal’s side, thumb brushing against the fabric of his shirt. Both an offering of comfort and an urge to keep civil. Nate made no attempt to hide the gesture, but he didn’t indulge Lucy’s veiled curiosity, either. “Rachel helped us. We didn’t make it to the pie, though. Turns out sleeping all day is exhausting.”

He took the hint. Mal let out a quiet sigh and focused on the feeling of Nate’s hand, a warm and steady pressure against his side.

“General, I believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen you voluntarily rest. And here you are asking me for medicine, too.” She scoffed, cleaning a space on Mal’s arm. “Will I go outside to see brahmin flying in the sky as well?”

“To be fair, I was manipulated.” He mumbled, glancing at Mal and then back to Lucy as she administered Med-X.

“Yeah,” Mal answered, with a touch of dry humor. “Sure is terrible having people who care about you and don’t want to see you limping around in pain. My condolences.”

“It’s the worst.” Nate gummed back, face half concealed in the tangle of blankets but not enough to hide all of his smirk. 

Lucy rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t weep. Now sit up, let me see your arm.”

He obliged, pushing back up on an elbow to offer her the wounded one. 

Mal watched Lucy without much investment—he trusted her to do good work, and trusted Nate to be paranoid enough for the both of them. He settled in and let his eyes close, already drifting as the med-x went to work, wrapping his thoughts in a layer of fuzzy warmth.

Not quite asleep, but close.

Nate watched as far as Lucy swabbing the site, then his attention drifted over to Mal. Worn lines softened across Nate’s face, and for a moment, even against the harsh cast of orange lantern light, he looked much younger.

This time Lucy smirked. “You’re both going to be fine.” She assured him, quietly.

“I know.” He said. “You’re the best doctor in the Commonwealth.”

“Yes, I am. But that’s not what I mean.”

Nate turned to look her in the eye; Lucy was already packing up her bag. “... Didn’t take you for a yenta.” He scoffed.

“ _Hardly_. I’ve only been watching you two weep across my floor for two days over the very idea of being more than an arms length apart. I’m afraid you’re not subtle, General.”

Frowning, he turned his head toward a deserted corner of the room. Wondered whether Mal was awake, and hearing this. If so he was keeping his mouth shut. 

Unsure what to say back, Nate floundered in silence long enough to be an answer on its own. 

But Lucy seemed content to leave it at that. She was already heading for the door. “Send for me if you need anything in the night.”

“Thanks, Lu.”

“Thank me by getting some _sleep_ , General.”

A moment later and silence finally reigned over the dark room. 

Nate sat quietly a bit longer. Then he felt his way back against Mal, at first tentative in his reach, then wrapping closer than might be considered practical. Med-x had a way of dulling not just pain, but inhibitions, too. “Sweet dreams.” Nate mumbled drowsily. “Don’t let the bed roaches bite.”

Mal was just awake enough to better accommodate Nate, curling closer against his side. His heart felt light in a way that had nothing to do with painkillers or sleep.

With a listless murmur, barely audible between the bedding and the way he was tucked against Nate, Mal offered, “Mm—g’night…”

Then he was gone, falling into deep, dreamless sleep.

Sleep came easily for Nate, but didn’t stay to wear out its welcome. He woke some time before the light to a cavernous silence hollowing out the room. 

At first Nate wasn’t sure where he was. Only that there was weight laying heavy on him and he could not be sure of his surroundings. His breath caught. Impulsively Nate started to flinch away, but fingers curled against his shirt and recognition finally struck.

_Mal._

Safe, in Nate’s bed.

Covered with bruises and bandages. 

He stilled, then shut his eyes and buried his forehead back against the mess of Mal’s hair. Breathed in.

_I love you_. As much a shock now as it’d been the day before. Tentative hopes flickered in his chest. 

There wasn’t a fiber of Nate that regretted offering Mal forever. But there was fear again. It had rested too and risen alongside Nate. Suddenly he was wide awake. And full of doubt.

They’d survived a true horror. Would Mal still want _this_ when his wounds healed and the terror faded? Nate wasn’t brave, or strong, or worthy at all of Promises. Didn’t Mal deserve someone who _was?_

He could make up his own mind, of course. And Nate would give him everything a hundred times over. But Nate had fallen, which meant he could break - or break another, and that _terrified_ him almost as much as he trusted in Mal’s arms to make the catch.

Reaching for another blanket, Nate pulled it up around them both, careful not to disturb Mal. For a few long minutes, Nate studied the dim silhouette of his - …were they lovers? Now? 

A pang of longing inspired him to press closer. “...I love you.” He murmured against Mal’s shoulder, too quiet for anyone to hear. Tasted the truth of it in the open air, between the two of them.

Nate couldn’t say whether this was smart, really. But it felt right. Amidst the maze of his thoughts he knew that, whatever else happened, he didn’t want to part for anything. 

He stayed that way until grey blue filtered into the room, and daylight followed, and songbirds could be heard outside. It was enough to hold Mal.

Mal woke to the hazy grey light of dawn, warm and content. It didn’t take long for where he was to register. To realize he was burrowed beneath a literal mountain of blankets, tangled up with Nate.

_Nate—_

Mal’s breath caught. In the second that followed he found himself terrified to open his eyes, struck with the sudden, cold fear that he might still be dreaming. That this might not be real. He let his fingers curl gently against the soft fabric of Nate’s shirt. 

No— _no._ This wasn’t a dream. This was _real_. Nate was real. 

They were—

Cracking his eyes open, Mal squinted against the dim light filtering into the room. Moved just enough to take in Nate’s outline and reassure himself, but not enough to wake Nate up. On the off chance he was still asleep, anyway. Which was probably wishful thinking, but still.

Then, so suddenly it took him by surprise, a soft, delighted laugh bubbled in Mal’s throat. He had to fight it down to keep quiet, because holy shit— _holy shit._ This had to be a dream, because there was no way he’d gotten _this_ lucky.

Smiling openly, Mal shifted to press his face against Nate and squeezed him in a very— _very_ —gentle hug.

“Haha— _ow_ ,” Mal said, voice muffled against Nate’s shirt, still grinning and unwilling to pull away despite what common sense dictated. Fuck it—this was worth a little pain. A lot. All of it. Anything, so long as Mal didn’t have to let go and the moment could linger.

Though if Nate _had_ still been asleep there was no way he was now. Mal knew he should feel guilty about that, but it couldn’t quite dampen the giddy delight buoying his heart.

Not quite dozing, but not quite awake either, Nate couldn't help but giggle back. He stirred with a deep inhale, sure now that Mal was up. "Hey, you." Nate's voice cracked drowsily. 

Until now he'd spent the better part of dawn entangled in worries over what sort of reception Mal would make, come waking. If fear or regret or other warnings might manifest. Whether to give him more space in the bed. If Nate should offer an out to be sure Mal knew he hadn't made any obligations for himself. 

The countless uncertainties all melted away like morning dew at the _softness_ of that laugh.

Warm and light, Nate chuckled again, creases forming around his eyelids. He could have sworn his heart stopped. Because this could be real, and maybe he hadn’t let himself believe that, _really,_ until now. But if they could hold each other like this, then - he was pretty sure he could fly, too.

His arms spread up the slope of Mal's back, mindful of their injuries, and Nate mumbled something inaudible against the mess of auburn hair before pressing a kiss to it. 

Mal hummed and tipped his face to the side, still grinning like an idiot. 

“Morning…sorry I woke you up,” he said, voice raspy from sleep, and not sounding _all_ that much like he meant it. Mal shifted and reached up to run his fingers through Nate’s hair, toying with it absently as he lay there and basked in the reality of what he'd woken up to.

Nate suppressed a shudder at the touch, letting out a short, sharp exhale, “I’m not complaining.” 

For a while he only stayed there, marvelling to be held. Then Nate brushed a stray tangle behind Mal’s ear, shifting to get a better look at his face. The bruises were dark and myriad, but the swelling at least looked a _little_ improved. “How are you feeling?”

Mal shrugged lazily. “Not too bad.” He let his eyes close again, fingers still carding lightly through Nate’s hair. “I’ve definitely had worse mornings. Mm—wouldn’t say no to breakfast though. Or a bath.” 

Mal opened an eye and tipped his head enough to grin up at Nate, teasing. “Or maybe…breakfast _in_ the bath? We could kill two birds with one stone, that way. _Oh—_ ”

Mal opened both eyes and squirmed around to detangle himself from Nate, reaching his right arm towards the nightstand, half-blind. He flailed around until he bumped against the drawer handle, let out a triumphant _ah-hah_ , and tugged it open. Propped himself up and took a look inside.

_Empty. Of course._

Sighing, Mal turned back to Nate with a hopeful look. “You uh—wouldn’t happen to have any smokes stashed around here, would you? In the desk, maybe?”

Nate’s perplexed moue floated into an eyeroll and a jocular smirk. “No, I’m afraid not.” Shifting to his stomach, he sat up on his elbows. “ _Nor_ should you really be smoking them anyway, while we’re trying to get you healed up.” 

Frowning, Mal slumped back down into the bedding and carefully rolled over onto his back, resting his bandaged hand on his stomach and tucking the other behind his head.

" _Really_?" Mal grumbled, tipping his head to scowl at Nate. The gesture was laced with frustration, but didn’t hold any trace of the anger it might’ve with anyone else. “I thought I was _done_ being tortured. It's not like a few cigarettes are gonna kill me.”

_“Yeah.”_ Nate quipped back, shuffling over to rest a cheek against Mal’s shoulder again. “ _Sure_ is terrible having people who care about you.”

With a huff, Mal plucked absently at his t-shirt and stared up at Nate’s ceiling, mulling over his options. The motion felt awkward and uncomfortable with the bandages wrapping his hand though, and he quickly abandoned it in favor of sighing.

“Plus, it would make me very upset. _Distraught._ Even.” Nate continued with a pout, lips feathering up Mal’s sleeve. “In fact I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to kiss you if you did.” He blinked heavily to emphasize the point.

Mal’s stomach gave a hopeful little swoop. He turned, face to very-close-face with Nate. Quirked an eyebrow and offered a challenging smirk.

“Mm—so what I’m taking away here is that if I behave—” Mal leaned a fraction closer, still careful to give Nate space to back out, as much as he really, _really_ wanted to take the initiative. “—I'm gonna get a kiss?" Mal frowned, like he was weighing his options. "That _would_ be a pretty good incentive..."

“It does sound that way, doesn’t it?” Nate mused, before flashing his brows in a taunt. Tucking his chin in, he pulled just a fraction back, ears already pink. “ _But_ you’d have to promise. No smokes until you can take stims again.” 

He made an attempt to look stern, though it wasn’t particularly effective when he seemed on the verge of a tremendous smile. “It’s the only way I can be consoled.” 

Now Nate’s eyes drifted down to Mal’s lips, observing the shape of them. Felt his own resolve waver in the face of a curious hunger. Nate wouldn’t mind seeing that smirk, again.

He swallowed, then flicked his gaze back up to meet Mal’s. 

Humming, Mal let himself take in the sight of Nate. How he was obviously a little flustered, the tips of his ears flushed red. Which was absolutely fucking adorable and only made Mal want to kiss him _more_.

“Is that so? Hm—” Mal took another long second, pretending to think it over. “How do I know the reward is worth it? Maybe—” Settling for a roguish smirk, Mal leaned back into the bedding to make it clear Nate had to make the first move. “Maybe a little sample of what’s being offered would help me make up my mind…?”

Mal hoped that wasn’t pushing too far, but Nate’s teasing had him feeling bolder. And, well—

Nicotine wasn’t the _only_ thing Mal was craving right now.

“Pch.” Nate’s heart stuttered at the invitation. Propping his head up with an elbow, he leaned just a little over Mal and grinned back. “You drive a hard bargain. Let me think about that.” Nate’s other hand feathered gently through Mal’s hair again, fingertips lingering over the edge of his jaw.

Mal’s heart pounded in his chest, and he shivered at the touch.

Briefly, Nate hesitated, frozen in place against the far edge of self-restraint.

Then he leaned forward, glancing to Mal’s eyes to double check. And once he was sure, back to that smirk. It was more than enough encouragement. Hardly believing himself, and hardly caring to - Nate brushed his lips carefully against Mal’s.

It only lasted a second or two before he ducked his head, huffing through his nose and managing a shuddering laugh. As if it was the first time he’d ever tasted such affection. Every nerve in Nate’s body lit up. His hand trembled faintly as it tangled in Mal’s hair. 

But the break did not last long enough for a full sentence. And the next kiss was bolder.

_This_ was everything Mal wanted, had pined after for months.

Eyes closing, he returned the kiss. Carefully, but with no lack of enthusiasm. He pushed up on his arm just a fraction, an encouraging sound humming in the back of his throat.

After wanting this for so long, wanting _Nate_ for so long, Mal still couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

Heat pounded in Nate's ears. Drawing closer was more instinct than conscious thought. Capacity for reason belonged to the butterflies filling his head.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed that way, lost track somewhere between the thrum of Mal's pleasure and the urgency of desire. A stifled groan echoed back from Nate, as he pressed gently into Mal’s outline. Even this threatened to overwhelm him. If they hadn't already been lying down, it might've toppled him. He surrendered to the wave. 

Time and space became inconsequential notions, leaving only a singular, infinite place where they had each other.

It felt _right._

The unfortunate need for air was the only thing that eventually led Mal to pull back, and even then he barely took the time for a full breath before rising to meet Nate again. His head spun from more than lack of oxygen—he was on fire, burning up with the kind of aching need that had him shifting, instinctively pressing against Nate as familiar heat rushed south.

Mal reached out, arm wrapping around the back of Nate's waist, a hand teasing at the hem of Nate's shirt and ready to tug him closer, when whatever minimal amount of blood was still capable of reaching Mal's _brain_ had him stopping to think.

After giving Nate’s lower lip a playful nibble, Mal pulled away enough to breathe freely again. Searched for Nate's gaze.

Nate kept his eyes shut for a few seconds after, panting. He felt feverish, and laughed again for sheer delight. It wasn't just his head throbbing, now. 

But a thread of alarm still bolted through him; where stable feet had stepped out on the limb after Mal, now they staggered. The line had been tested. Nate wasn't ready to press farther.

He opened his eyes. Looked softly over Mal. Nate's unsteady fingers uncurled from Mal's hair, floating down to rest against his stubbled jaw and brush a disbelieving thumb across his mouth. How remarkable, to find themselves _here._

"Take it easy on me," Nate murmured gently, giddy through the nerves. His palm drifted to Mal's torso, but Nate made no grab for the shirt. Another bit of foolishness now and he was liable to pass out. 

Mal let out a breathless laugh and sank back into the bedding, heart hammering like he’d run a mile with a pack of raiders on his heels.

“Sorry,” Mal managed, still grinning though it had taken on a softer edge as he looked Nate over, willed his body to get back with the program as fast as his mind. “Got ah—little carried away there.”

_A little_ , thought Nate, another thrill scanning through him at the lingering sensation of their kiss. The air was thick and magnetic. Nothing at all compared to the ecstacy of being wanted by the man he loved.

Mal dropped his hand to fidget with the hem of his own shirt as Nate’s hand hovered lower, stirring another wave restless longing. Mal had brought up baths, but the way the morning was going, maybe a cold shower was a better idea.

"Was that," Nate cleared his throat, still grinning, "Ah... incentivizing?"

Well. It was sure as hell _something_. Mal wasn’t sure incentivizing was the right word, though. Amazing—yes. But as far as the terms of their bargain went all it’d really accomplished was adding another layer of frustration on top of his craving to smoke.

_That_ was going to be fun to deal with.

Mal let out a sudden exhale, trapped somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. Still smiling—he didn’t think there was any way he could look at Nate with anything other than blissful affection, now—Mal reached up to cup the side of Nate’s face. Brushed the pad of his thumb carefully across Nate’s cheekbone and lingered there. Mal shoved aside the near-overwhelming urge to kiss Nate again, and just drank in the sight of him. Which was maybe just as dangerous, really.

“That’s ah—” Mal laughed, sounding a little sheepish. “That’s one word for it.” He cleared his throat again and pulled his hand back to a safer distance. “But fine. Deal. No smoking until after surgery.”

The absence of the touch left a keen chill against Nate’s face, and he shut his eyes again. “Mh-g--hm-good. I’m - relieved.” He really didn’t want an inch of separation, hungered for the reassurance of Mal’s closeness like a man who had just realized he needed it to survive. But the way things were going - maybe not a smart option right now. 

Still Mal’s laughter echoed through Nate like the lilt of a song, and without really thinking about it he hummed a tune back. Something vaguely reminiscent of _Crazy He Calls Me_. Only a few lines, before he reopened his eyes and the warmth flooded through his core with renewed fervor. “I think you said something earlier about ah, breakfast?”

Nate’s humming left a giddiness buzzing in Mal’s chest, and when he stopped, Mal felt only a vague sense of disappointment that it had ended so soon.

“Breakfast—” Mal repeated, after a few thoughtful seconds. “Yeah…um. Breakfast would be good. We could have something brought here, to the room? I wouldn’t mind having you all to myself a little longer, before I ah—have to share again.” 

Another teasing grin tugged up the corner of Mal's lip, and he knotted his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt to keep them from wandering. He told himself there'd be plenty of time for that, later. After things had cooled down a little and he was less likely to do something stupid.

In the back of Nate’s mind the pressures of being General nagged. The garrison would want to see him out and about. Mal might know Nate was not invulnerable, but the expectations of rank - and the morale riding on it - didn’t match that simple truth. After the better part of the week spent preoccupied over Mal’s whereabouts - and then his rescue, they needed to make an appearance soon and reassure the rest of the Castle. 

…But for one more morning, at least, it could just be the two of them. “It’s a date.” Nate teased, eyes creased with mischief. 

“Listen, Mal…” Nate faltered a bit, looking down at his hand still resting over the shirt. Though he loathed to sully the moment, the request had tugged at something darker. He thought it better to be honest now, while he still had the courage. “I know everything that’s happened isn’t - this might not be easy. For a while.” 

Maybe this was a mistake, actually, now that he’d started. The surge of emotion, already strong, reflected now into its uglier mirror. “And as much as you need time or - _space,_ to work through things, whatever you need to do, I understand. I just -” He blinked back a stinging sensation in his eyes. “And I’m here for you. If you need anything from me, just say it. I’ll set everything else aside to make it happen. _I want to._ ” That was the truth. 

Nate withdrew his hand, fingers curling pensively. “It scared me, when I thought you -” No. His voice hobbled. He couldn’t voice it. Nate sidestepped instead, “...Mostly uh - guess I want you to know, if you’re inclined to stay close, don’t keep any distance on my behalf. Alright?” That was also the truth. 

A sudden chill crept over Mal, like a draft from an open door. His grin slipped, worry adding lines to his face that hadn’t been there before. Mal wasn’t sure where to start. What to even say. The abrupt change in subject alone was enough to have him scrambling for traction. 

“I don’t—” The fingers tangled in his shirt twisted, winding the fabric tighter, tighter. “I don’t know…what I need, right now.” Mal let his gaze slide away from Nate for the first time, something sickly and bitter coating his tongue, making the words difficult to spit out. “But I do want to be here—with you. I _do_ —”

Mal went uncharacteristically still, other than the hand still wrapped in his shirt. He’d wound it tight enough the fabric bit into his fingers, nearly cutting off the circulation.

“Look, Nate...you can tell me what _you_ need too, alright? If you need to talk about—about what happened, or—if… _I_ need to talk about it. I don’t know what would help, but I’ll try—just, tell me, okay? _Please…_ ”

Nate realized he'd unearthed a bloody mark, wincing a little over the pain in Mal's reaction. "It's - Feathers. Hey." Nate scrambled, half hoarse and soothing. He reached back with both arms for the hand wound around Mal's shirt, tugging at it, trying to press his fingers into the spaces between Mal's and hold them close.

Reluctantly, Mal allowed Nate to take his hand. Left without the same focus though, he rubbed his thumb across the side of Nate’s, misplaced agitation spiking at the loss, even as something in his stomach swooped at Nate’s use of the nickname.

"No - I, I don't _need_ you to tell me anything I..." Nate exhaled. "I- _i_ wonder. But it's not - you don't have to talk to me about it if you aren't ready. Or if you're never ready. And you don't have to know what you need, right now, either. That's fine. It doesn't surprise me -" God, was he making this worse? He staggered ahead with his hopes and fears, fighting back the nerves sending needles through him in bitter competition for the warmth of before.

"All I want is to make sure you're safe. If you want to figure this out together, or need to do it on your own, I'm just - trying to say I'll understand. Any way it happens." He gave a fragile laugh, "It was supposed to be encouraging. Think maybe Lucy should check my head, too."

“No, I—” Mal let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You can ask about things, if you want. I’d wanna know too, if—if it were the other way around. It’s ok, I can…I can talk about it, whatever you want to know—I’m ok.”

Pressing his forehead against Mal's, gently, Nate shut his watery eyes and exhaled again. "I just want you to be safe." He repeated. More quietly. More fervently. "And the idea of letting you out of my sight for a _moment_ from today onward scares the life out of me. But I know holding on too tight can suffocate a good thing. And you're the best thing that's - ever happened to me and _God I don't want to ruin this._ Or hurt you."

Letting out a strangled laugh, Mal squeezed Nate’s hand. “Nate, I—I don’t want to be anywhere else right now. I don’t—” Mal swallowed, closed his eyes, drank in the reassurance of Nate so close he could feel the warmth of his breath. “I don’t want to be alone right now. Okay? That’s—fuck, that’s the _last_ thing I want—period, end of story. So unless you want me to give _you_ space I’m content to play shadow for a while, alright? You’re not hurting me—I can’t, actually…”

A shaky exhale. “I’ve never been with anyone as careful and thoughtful and amazing as you. And I know—I’m a fucked up mess, but I’m not glass, and I’m not _fragile_. You’re not—you’re not gonna break me, okay? _I love you_ , and this is—” Pressing forward a little, Mal pressed his forehead closer against Nate’s, ignoring the protest of numerous aches in favor of proximity. “ _—this_ is all I want. Right here. _You_.”

Nate might have kissed him again for that. Squeezing Mal's hand back, Nate tilted his brow to nuzzle against Mal and let out something near to a sob. It was hard to absorb the affection, the assurance, the _love_ Mal so freely offered. Nate didn't feel like he deserved it. 

But he’d accept it, and thank whatever gods had seen fit to bless him with Mal’s company. "You can have me. For a day, or a year, or a lifetime. I don’t want space, at all, I- 

"I'm sorry." He murmured, before he could check the impulse. For being weak. For being afraid. For not knowing better. For needing something he couldn't find first inside himself. Flaws Mal didn't want apologies for, but they ate at Nate even so.

His good hand still tangled with Nate’s, Mal reached out with his left, cradled it gently around Nate’s shoulders, holding him close. Mal shifted just enough to press a soft kiss against Nate’s forehead, a surge of affection threatening to steal his breath away completely.

“Hey—it’s ok. There’s—you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, alright?" Carefully, Mal stroked his hand down Nate’s back, touch feather-light. It was maybe a little awkward with the bandages in the way, but Mal didn’t have the heart to let go of Nate’s hand yet.

He inhaled at the touch, breath then held for a long moment as Nate wrestled with himself. There was plenty to be sorry for, more than he could hold onto. But Mal's forgiveness was meaningful in itself. He was always forgiving Nate. Which Nate didn't deserve any more than the affection. 

Words stuck in his throat. Still he managed to let his held breath loose, sidling into Mal through the protest of worried stitches, and curling close. 

There, the knot in Nate's gut untangled enough to speak. "I'm glad you're here... I don't deserve it. But I'm glad. I - love you. And that won't ever change."

The idea that Nate loved him wasn’t a revelation, but hearing it spoken for the first time was. The words hit Mal like an avalanche, like a collapsing building, like a meteor crashing to earth after blazing a trail across the skyline. Maybe because he hadn’t expected to hear something like that outloud—not really. Nate’s closeness, his affection, his promises, were more than enough.

Mal wanted to insist _he_ was the one who would never come close to deserving _Nate_ , so how the hell did Nate think he was somehow falling short? But the words caught behind the lump in Mal’s throat, even though the flood of emotions that followed swept away the worst of the bitterness.

Unbothered by the spike of pain it brought, he pressed his face to the crown of Nate’s head, mumbled incomprehensible reassurances into the tangle of his hair, then kissed him there, because Mal had to do _something_ with the joy and nervous energy buzzing through him or he was going to spontaneously combust.

Nate wasn't sure if it was panic or ecstasy that sent his heart fluttering like a flock of birds. Maybe fear would have taken control, if it'd been anyone but Mal, and his lips weren't freeing Nate's ghost from its shackles with each touch. He had tasted near death too many times now to count. For the first time, he thought he might understand resurrection - and realized those were different things entirely.

So even though it was hard, and too much, and he couldn't understand why Mal loved him back, Nate chose to trust what they had.

He laughed again, fragile but certain, and shifted his cheek up against Mal's before kissing there in return.

"If we're going to get breakfast in bed," Nate murmured against him after a long, warm moment, "one of us is going to have to go tell the doorman."

Mal had closed his eyes again at some point, let himself slip back into the moment. It was all almost too much.

He stirred again at Nate’s words. Sighed. “ _Mmg._ Well, You’re uh—gonna have to let me get up, if you want me to put in that order for room service.”

“That’s asking an awful lot of me, here.” Nate complained mildly from the crook of Mal’s neck, loathe to let go even for a moment, especially not tangled in such a comfortable nest. 

Nate loosened his fingers around Mal’s. “They got ‘lurk eggs in this week.” Nate suggested, still tucked away and sounding almost drowsy, “Guy who brought them didn’t have any teeth.” It felt a bit strange to discuss trivialities like this in the ebbing tide of emotion, but comforting - familiar - all the same as it was new. 

Grunting, Mal commented, “Yeah? Wonder if those two things are connected…”

“I think he sold them, actually. Ten caps a piece and a bottle of Vim. Or - they were stolen by vampires. Depending on who you ask.”

“Gotta watch those vampires,” he agreed. “They’re tricky like that.”

With a reluctant sigh, he wiggled around until he could extract himself from Nate and the tangle of blankets. He scooted over to the edge of the nest, let his legs hang over the side, and stretched until the sharp twinge of still-recent bruising discouraged anything more.

Nate watched the motion. While the notion of Mal’s attractiveness (or the occasional impulse to stare) wasn’t unfamiliar, Nate wasn’t accustomed to allowing more than a fleeting glance before stifling the thoughts. His hand floated to the warmth left behind in Mal’s absence.

“I’ll uh, see if they can cook us up some omelettes or something. Coffee, too.” If he wasn't allowed to smoke that was _something_ , at least.

“Mmm, ask for cream with it.” 

Mal twisted around for a second, grinned back at Nate before reaching out to pat his arm reassuringly. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he teased. “Won’t even be out of sight.”

With a faint smirk, Nate inhaled. Teased back, “Don’t leave me lonely too long.”

Chuckling, Mal pushed to his feet. He took a stiff couple steps, then paused to stretch again, this time focusing on his lower body. His knee ached, his hips ached, his back ached— _Christ._ At some point he had to wonder if he was just getting _old_. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d been smacked around, Mal just didn’t remember it being quite this rough bouncing back.

“ _Ugh_ —” Mal limped a few more steps before falling into a mostly-steady gait, irritation sullying his good mood. “I think I’m gonna go talk to Lucy again today, see about pushing for surgery now." Mal reached the door to the bedroom and stopped to look Nate's direction. “Get back to taking stims again. This is stupid.”

“Think of all the excuses to stay in bed we’re going to miss out on this week, if you do that.” Nate supplied back, frowning. 

“I dunno, ‘recovering from surgery’ seems like a good enough excuse to me."

Nate didn’t immediately reply, a pensive look overshadowing his features. If Lucy thought it best to wait and repair Mal’s nose, Nate was inclined to trust that assessment. But trusting her wasn’t an expectation he could place on Mal, only encourage. Nor would Nate demand patience - though his inclination was to at least ask for it. Ultimately, he would respect Mal’s choice either way.

Just. Now didn’t quite seem like the time to get into all of that. “You can claim that excuse either way, it’ll only run out sooner and you might end up with a snore.” He finally answered, still lighthearted.

Mal shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so—”

Probably not the answer Nate wanted, but Mal didn’t doubt with the way Nate was hinting they’d end up talking about this again. Just hopefully after breakfast.

Before any further discussion—or argument—could happen, Mal tugged open the bedroom door and poked his head out, easily catching the attention of the guard posted at their door, and relayed their breakfast order. Along with special instructions to bring cream and honey for Nate, and to leave a full pot of coffee rather than only a cup each.

That done, Mal closed the door again and turned back towards the bed, grinning. “Alright—order’s in, and the food should be here soon.”

“Thanks.” Nate hummed, wearing affection plainly on his face as he stared. _Mal._ The name like a song stuck in Nate’s head. He still found himself dazed by the turn of events. Got the idea that would be a recurring sensation for a while - or forever, actually. 

His gaze flicked down to Mal’s feet and then back up again, over the pajama bottoms and the beans shirt. Dishevelled and wild in the morning sunlight, his hair was absolutely begging to be ruffled. Nate’s soft smile twisted into something faintly more mischievous, “You know, that’s a good look for you.” 

Mal’s grin shifted into a bemused smirk. “What—pajamas?” He spread his hands, looking down at himself with something bordering on dramatic flair. “You’re a man of refined and particular taste, I see.”

“Oh, _very_ particular.” Nate replied. “ _Singular_ , in fact. And he’s standing in my quarters, just requisitioned us breakfast.”

Humming, Mal made his way back across the bedroom and stopped, just in front of the bed. “Is that so?”

Nate leaned onto his back against the cushions, “Red hair, freckles, always getting me into trouble. Yeah, I’m sure.”

A brief and furious debate about whether or not climbing back into bed with Nate was a good idea took place in Mal’s head over the span of half a second. In the end, practicality lost—whoever brought their food would knock first. It wouldn’t kill them to walk a few extra steps to bring it into the bedroom, too. And if they took issue with that, or anything they saw, well—

They could take it up with the General.

Still careful of their injuries, Mal eased down onto the bed and crawled through the nest of blankets and pillows, this time ending up with his and Nate’s previous positions reversed.

Propped up on his elbows, Mal leaned over Nate. Not _too_ close. Just enough to take a good, long look. The familiar angles of Nate's face, the dark color of his hair, the way his eyes weren't just one solid shade of blue, but multiple hues, impossible to separate unless you were close enough to kiss—

“You know," Mal said. "I gotta say—I’m enjoying the view a lot myself.”

Bashfulness was not in Nate's nature. But he came very close to it, as his cheeks flushed and his eyes squinted over a smile. For a moment he considered teasing those lips again, Mal was so close, it wouldn't be difficult... 

Before all this, Mal had rarely seen Nate blush. Didn’t think he was really the type for it, because he sure as hell wasn’t _shy_. Now, Mal realized he might have been wrong about that—and then wondered just how often he’d be able to tease that kind of reaction out of Nate in the future.

It seemed like a worthy application of Mal’s time and effort.

God, holding back was going to be hard. Nate scarcely felt ready for the confessions he'd made _already,_ and they weren't even past breakfast. Mal had embraced this at every turn, though, even the missteps, and with that came a dizzying kind of courage. Nate felt himself wanting to take risks.

In fact they hardly seemed like risks at all.

But he was mindful of how easily passion swept away reason. So instead, Nate took a deep breath, reaching up to rub a hand over Mal's forearm affectionately. "I love you." He offered again, pouring all he felt in that moment into the words, and hoping even a fraction of it came across.

“Love you too,” Mal echoed back, melting into the touch. He sank all the way back down, rested his head on Nate’s chest. Marveled again at how he’d gotten so lucky, to have this. Any of it—all of it.


	13. Look, Sad Soup!

Nate kept watch on the door, a hand wrapped up in Mal’s hair as they cuddled. An easy quiet followed, punctuated only by gentle pets and affectionate hums. Nate didn’t doze again, but he allowed himself to rest in the comfort of their closeness. Only that. For now nothing else mattered or could be more pressing than the way it felt to hold Mal.

Breakfast arrived with a knock, too soon and not soon enough. Nate’s inclination was to sit up to greet them, but with Mal nestled comfortably over him and showing no signs of moving, Nate was forced to abandon the effort. “Ah, come in.” He called. 

A young recruit named Thomas entered, nervous and frail. He looked first toward the desk and the fireplace, only to find them unoccupied, which seemed to perplex him. When he finally spotted the pair on the bed, his face flushed brilliantly and his eyes turned saucer-shaped. 

Nate almost laughed at that.

Thomas couldn’t decide whether he was supposed to look or not, and settled for anxious half-glances. “Br-reakfast, s-sir…’s.”

Mal shifted to look towards the door—and the doe-eyed recruit who’d been sent to deliver their breakfast. With a grin, he flicked a mock salute in the kid’s direction.

“Morning,” Mal said, smug humor all but dripping from his voice. “Go ahead and bring it over, it’s fine—we won't bite.”

It was _possible_ he was going to have a lot of fun with this.

“Feathers,” Nate amended dryly. “I’ve personally seen you bite _at least_ three people.” His fingers continued to wander through Mal’s hair. “But ah, I don’t think you have anything to worry about this morning, Thomas. So long as you don’t keep holding onto that food. You can set it on my desk there and get back to your duties.”

“I said ‘won’t’ not ‘haven’t ever’,” Mal corrected with a lazy huff.

He let his eyes slip closed, leaning into the hand petting through his hair, though he remained alert. No chance of dozing off, not now that the food had arrived.

Unsure of his place in this banter, Thomas made a nervous, barely audible sort of chuckle and did as he was told. "Yessir." 

"Thank you, Thomas." Nate replied.

“Yessir.” He more or less marched to the exit at a double pace, not looking back until the door was almost shut, when he spun at the last moment - suddenly seeming desperate to confirm whether or not his eyes were seeing correctly, or what exactly he was seeing at all. 

And then the heavy wood clamored shut, and they were alone again, the smell of fresh breakfast filling up the bedroom. 

Nate succumbed to an abrupt fit of giggling, burying his mouth and nose into Mal’s hair and hugging him closer. “I think you enjoyed that too much.”

A muffled laugh followed. “Nah—I think I enjoyed that just the right amount. Gotta keep these kids on their toes.”

It washed over Nate again, another wave of nerve-shattering relief to have Mal back safe, and close, and to hear him laughing. “Oughtta make you a drill sergeant.” Nate mumbled, risking another fragile kiss against Mal’s hair before trying to sit upright once more. He was feeling the soreness of his stitches, now, but hardly minded. Mal had a talent for being distracting. 

Mal stirred when Nate did, craning his neck to look towards the steaming tray of food and drink. Though he wasn’t any more thrilled to get up now that he’d been the first time, the lure of breakfast and fresh coffee was ultimately the greater motivator.

“Mm, yeah but I do all the fun parts of that _already_ ,” Mal pointed out, deftly extracting himself from the tangle of bedding and padding over to the desk before Nate could get the idea in his head to do it himself. “Just without the rank, and rules, and uniform, _et cetera_ —” 

With an eye roll, Mal scooped up the tray and took it back to the bed. He stopped to grin at Nate as he set the tray down on the nest of blankets. “I think I’ve got a pretty good thing going right now.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Nate agreed, matching the grin. “You’ve really found your niche.” 

Righting himself and crossing his legs, he leaned over the steaming plates, blinking in surprise when he saw the honey had been included. Mal remembering Nate’s tastes or thinking to ask after them wasn’t unusual, but it still surprised him. “Honey, _too?_ ” He clicked his tongue, “Trying to woo me, I see.” 

“Well, that's the plan anyway." Mal crawled back onto the bed and reached for the pot, pouring coffee into both mugs.

“I’d say you’re on the right track.”

He left plenty of room for cream and honey in Nate’s, but filled his own to the brim. Without waiting for it to cool, Mal downed the entire thing, then refilled it and set the mug aside on the nightstand in favor of snagging one of the plates of food.

Slower, Nate was methodical in mixing his coffee. Stirred and watched the foam bubble as it spun. He took a smaller sip, savoring. Then lowered the cup in his lap with both hands. “Yeah. I’m wooed.”

He got about halfway through the drink before starting on his meal, and didn’t have to be encouraged to eat. The eggs were fresh, tasty, with good company to eat over. Not a bad way to start a morning, all things considered. 

In the content quiet he found his thoughts drawn back over the tracks of their conversation. And most frequently, to the kiss, which Nate swore he could still feel on his lips. 

He had memories that weren’t his of what it felt like to be in love, and the guilt to go along with it. Nate Ronan’s entire life and all his losses, imprinted like a dream. But here, now, what happened belonged to only Mal and _this_ Nate. And somehow that, too, felt right.

Lucy came knocking near the end of breakfast to check the state of things. She was optimistic, commenting to the effect that at this rate, surgery might be possible as soon as tomorrow for Mal. In the meantime, med-x would deal with the pain, and a warm bath wouldn’t hurt him either. Doctor’s orders. 

When it came to be Nate’s turn, he opted not to argue against painkillers - though he did manage to negotiate a lower dose. After which, he asked Lucy to inform the officers that Preston should assume command for the day, as personal matters now demanded Nate’s attention. Which was not an impulsive decision, though it felt like one all the same. And it would do nothing whatsoever to stem the rumors he already had the sense to anticipate, but then - Mal hadn’t seemed to object to rumours, anyway. Right now, what mattered to Nate was right in front of him.

Nate's decision about both the medicine and his schedule had Mal looking over, one eyebrow ticking up even as an amused grin followed. He considered teasing, but ultimately settled for a much more sincere, “Thanks,” and let it go at that.

“What?” Nate scoffed. “No _gasp of disbelief?_ Relentless ribbing?” He leaned back against Mal’s shoulder on the bed, tilting his head so that it was mostly upside-down and his breath brushed Mal’s ear. “Here I am behaving, and finding myself subjected to all sorts of decency.” But the gratitude filled Nate with warmth, all the same. 

Lucy finished her checkup by reminding them both what harm any particularly strenuous activity might do to their still-mending wounds. But Nate would be allowed to walk short distances, today. Which included the length of the room to the adjoining bathroom, where the Castle’s solitary bathtub resided. 

It’d been repaired on principle, a relic of a predecessor who’d preferred the luxury. Up until now, Nate had found little use for it, preferring the more economical showers shared by the militia. He’d previously considered tearing it out to make better use of the space. But it had privacy. And suddenly privacy had become much more important. 

It also had hot water, thanks to Mal. And like every other aspect of Nate’s quarters, the unused tub was still kept immaculate. Only a few crates of surplus stacked neatly in the corner of the room betrayed that this was not a frequented luxury. 

There was also a mirror and a sink and a toilet, and a standing showerhead above the tub. The corners of the sink and the back of the toilet were also decorated with various trinkets and baubles, though the walls remained bare.

Mal wandered into the bathroom a few steps behind Nate. Like the bedroom, it had personal touches, although after poking around the space, Mal got the distinct impression this wasn’t a place Nate spent any length of time hanging around. Which sounded _exactly_ like Nate, even if it stirred the faintest sense of exasperation in Mal.

“I can’t believe it,” Mal said, frowning down into the tub before kicking lightly at the base of it. “You get a private bath, hot water, and your own soaking tub and you don’t even use it.”

Kneeling to fiddle with the knobs, Nate chuckled. “You sound like Codsworth.”

Water knocked through the pipes, and he held a hand out over the stream to check the temperature as it sputtered out. “I don’t usually have the time.” He addended, “Besides, it’s not like the whole garrison gets this luxury, and a shower suits me just fine.” Of course it would be a sponge bath for him, today, with the state of his stitches to account for.

Rolling his eyes, Mal sat on the side of the tub, angled so he could still see Nate.

“They _could_ have. Getting a real, actual bath house going wouldn’t be that much more work. It’s already got the plumbing and hot water. We’d just have to drag in more tubs, maybe set up some kind of dividers or screens or something, if people want the privacy.” Thoughtful, Mal hummed to himself, already chasing the idea. “Might be a nice summer project, and I’m sure no one's gonna complain about it by the time winter rolls around.”

Adjusting the knobs again, Nate switched hands beneath the water, throwing Mal a sideways look ripe with amusement. “Well, Ronnie might take issue with the Castle turning into a luxury resort and softening up all her recruits. But, ah, the troops would get a kick out of that, I’m sure.”

Mal pulled an amused face. “Ronnie takes issue with my existence—I’m not all that worried.”

“You _are_ her antithesis...” With an impish curl of his lip, Nate flicked excess water from his free hand in Mal’s direction, “Is this warm enough?”

Letting out a surprised laugh, Mal raised a hand against the attack. Cupping his hand under the stream, Mal aimed a retaliating splash in Nate’s direction. “I dunno, you tell me.” 

Nate recoiled, sputtering with amused alarm, stray droplets falling from his arm and chin. 

Still, despite his teasing, a mild thread of worry crept into Mal’s thoughts. “Now get up off the floor before you pull your stitches. We _just_ got done being lectured. I don't wanna have to hear it again an hour from now.”

“Psh.” Nate craned his neck to get a better look at the state of his leg. Somehow he doubted _this_ was what Lucy had been warning them against. “They’re not being stretched here anymore than they were in bed. And I’ll have to sit down to clean off, too, y’know. But I’ll refrain from - _most_ \- varieties of funny business. Promise.” 

Mal looked, and remained, unconvinced, although he couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle at the last part of Nate’s comment. “Only _most_ varieties...?”

“We- _e_ ll...” Nate stood and walked the few paces to the sink, where a couple of towels and a washcloth hung. He grinned back, “Thought I might scale the Castle wall later. Go dancing - the Continental. Kiss you again, if I’m feeling particularly bold.”

“Mm—that’s quite the agenda..." Grinning, Mal shook his head then let his gaze slide to the still-filling tub. Steam rose in wispy clouds from the tap and the water pooling in the basin. Mal couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hot bath, now that he actually thought about it. "But ah, if you can’t find the time to fit all those into your schedule, my vote’s for that last one.”

“Yeah?”, Nate plied. “I’ll keep that in mind. To be honest, it _is_ my favorite of the three.” Reaching behind the mirror, he pulled out soap, then tugged the washcloth from the bar. A wooden plank leaning against the tub served as a rack, but he didn’t set it over the tub yet. Just placed his retrievals beside it on the ground, and looked back at Mal. “Anything else you need?”

“Oh, uhm,” Mal said, blinking as he came back to the present. “I don’t—think so?” He hesitated, long enough to be a noticeable break in the conversation, then reached down to start pulling off his socks. “I—thanks.”

Nodding, there was a quiet beat in answer as Nate chewed his lip, watching Mal set to work one-handed. He hadn’t asked for help, so maybe an offer would seem overbearing. Maybe it would look like pressure, if Mal wanted space. But then, Nate could recall the weeks following his ill-fated trip to Kendall, and the total lack of use of an arm. Help had been more important than even his own stubbornness, that time. 

Checking the temperature of the tub again, more to keep his hands in motion than any real attention to the task, Nate inhaled. “Okay - but I’ll be right here if you need me to help at all… In the next room I mean - or, I can stay, _too_ , that’s fine, wherever y’want methat’s-” Breath clamping, Nate swallowed dryly with a half-shake of his head. “N- _ot_ that you have to take me up on it, I just -”

He really should have had a second cup of coffee. “Tell me what’d be easiest, for you.” Nate exhaled, “Maybe that’s a better way to put it, less foot-in-mouth all around.”

After discarding his socks beside the tub, Mal stopped, and tried to feel out the shape of Nate’s stammering so he didn’t overstep. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. The heavy pause lingering in the wake of Nate’s rambling was growing heavier by the second.

Nate didn’t drop his gaze at any point, but the flat stillness he assumed, down to his pinned breath, betrayed the tangled knot of his thoughts.

“I’m fine with you staying,” Mal said, eventually. “That’s not—I just want _you_ to be comfortable so uhm…if you want to stay, or help, that's great, just—"

Grimacing, Mal looked up at Nate. “Look, I’m fine taking things as slow as you want, but there’s not—you’re not gonna make _me_ uncomfortable, ok? I don’t… _expect_ anything from you, but don’t feel like you have to dodge around shit or hold back for my sake.”

Mal finally laughed, more at his own awkwardness than anything else. “Jesus, when did I get so _bad_ at this? Sorry...”

Nate staggered a laugh back, gaze softening a bit before he glanced away. "I ah, think it must've been something in the soup. You're doing better than me, at least." 

"None - of this, is like it was Before the War. I don't, ah -" Nate grinned sheepishly, running a hand through his hair, "I don't know the rules. And I don't want to assume too much. I _believe_ you, just-" Looking up to catch Mal's gaze again, Nate searched for reassurance, "Promise you'll tell me if I _do_ go too far?”

“Okay,” Mal said. “I’m pretty sure that isn’t possible—at least not right now—but ah, yeah. Promise.” There was a weight to that too. Something new and heavy, but not exactly bad. Just…different. 

Nodding, Nate reached to turn the faucet of. Steam from the full tub wafted between them, and a faint echo rang through the stone room. “That helps. And listen, I'm not - the last time someone made me do something I wasn't willing to do myself, I was twelve. Or - _he_ was twelve." He chuckled again, worried. "My point is - you don’t have to dance around it either. You won’t impose on me. I'd rather _know_ ; so we can figure this out together, instead of trying to guess." 

Mal nodded, then reached out to swoop a hand over the steaming water, letting his fingers trail through the mist. He felt at least a little reassured of where they stood, now. There were still other things they’d need to talk about later, but this was enough for now.

“Alright.” Pulling his hand back, Mal finally stood. “Well—I really _do_ want you to stay. I could um—probably use the help, too. No point in making things harder than they need to be.” He’d already done enough of _that_ for the morning. "Just take it easy, ok?" This time Mal gave a pointed look towards Nate's injuries.

He raised a hand and pressed the other to his heart in mock swear. Grinned again, still tentative, but gaining confidence. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“And, you know, maybe this’ll be a good way to ah, _test the waters_ a bit.” Snickering, Mal ducked his head and used his good hand to tug his shirt off, dropping it down on top of the discarded socks. “Get our feet wet before jumping in the deep end—”

Rolling his eyes, Nate interrupted with another splash of water in Mal’s direction. “Oh buoy. You’re lucky that sort of humor floats with me.”

His attention hovered over the array of bruises strewn across Mal’s figure. Worried again what hell he’d been through, and then marvelled at where they found themselves now. Hopefully the heat of the bath would ease away lingering soreness. They could heal now.

It didn’t escape notice how Nate’s eyes lingered on the marks. Mal followed his gaze, a faint sense of guilt stirring at the back of his mind. 

“It’s—it's probably not as bad…as you’re thinking,” Mal said, shrugging halfheartedly in response to the unasked question.

Pensive, Nate hesitated for a half second before pulling his own shirt off, too. No point in getting it wet. Bandages obscured the worst of his wounds - fewer than Mal’s to be sure, but meant to kill Nate rather than subdue. In the end, neither of them had succumbed to those intentions. And they were both here. And Nate was determined to give Mal a _very nice bath_.

Mal stopped long enough to watch Nate pull off his own shirt, his attention locking onto Nate's wounds with mirrored concern. “Oh. Do you want me to get you something to sit on?” He glanced around the room only to realize the sparse furnishings didn’t include chairs or stools. “…Or you could just sit on the edge of the tub?”

Maybe not the _most_ comfortable spot, but Mal had a feeling Nate’s “solution” would be the floor, which made Mal’s knee ache in sympathy just to think about.

Seeing Nate's own injuries on display also drove home again just how _close_ of a call this had been, and something sharp dug into Mal's conscience. He wasn't going to rest at Nate's expense, and he wasn't going to let Nate 'I'm fine' his way into it, either.

Nate glanced at the edge of the tub, but shook his head. “Nah, the floor suits me well enough. Don’t worry about it.” 

A pause. 

He looked at Mal again. “And ah… I dunno. Slugs and I were at each other’s throats for a long time… I’ve got a pretty good idea what she’s capable of.” Only half-aware of the motion, his fingers pressed to the ragged scar down his right arm. 

Cold crept over Mal despite his proximity to the heat rolling off the bath. He forgot he was supposed to be getting undressed and let himself stare openly at Nate’s arm. The scar. Mal had never gotten the full details of the encounter, but he’d gathered enough to know it wasn’t pretty.

Letting out a soft breath, Mal looked back down to the water, something dark and restless brewing like a storm at the back of his mind. The thing was, it really _wasn’t_ that bad. Not anything like what Nate had suffered, nearly losing an _arm_. Even in the context of Mal’s own experiences this shouldn't have been more than a blip on the radar.

But—

“It was my fault, anyway,” Mal said, quietly. “If—if I hadn’t been such a fucking idiot… _none of this_ would’ve happened in the first place."

Nate's brow furrowed even as his eyes grew wide and round with concern. There were a lot of different people he was ready to blame for what had happened. Most of them were dead, and one was in this room, but Mal didn't count among the number. 

The thin draw of Nate's lip held steady, as he tilted his head. "Why would you think that?" He asked softly, and waited for an answer, able to imagine no scenario in which Mal ought to carry guilt for what had been done to him. 

A cold and lightless part of Nate thought he understood already. It ached like an old wound at the whirling tension still out of sight.

Focusing back on the tub, Mal stared down at Nate’s distorted reflection in the water rather than look him in the eye. Tension and guilt crept into his posture, arms folding over his bare chest defensively.

“Because I fucked up,” he answered, something bitter and disgusted slipping into his tone. “I—shit, I jumped right in their window, Nate. I was—I was gonna be late, so I took a shortcut, and the building had been clear a few weeks earlier, so I thought it’d be fine.” Mal shook his head, swearing. “If I’d just…taken five fucking minutes to go around we would’ve been back here days ago eating soup together and—and—” Mal pulled in a ragged breath past the tightness in his chest. “What happened to me is—it’s nothing, ok. Not when I—I almost got you killed.”

Nate looked down at his reflection, too, frowning. 

He didn't answer right away. Silence rang out like a gunshot. In the gap he rolled Mal's confession around, tested it against a half dozen theories and as many possible replies. 

"We could blame the volunteers that secured that area." Nate answered finally, still quiet. "For not seeing anyone move in. Maybe the officer in charge of assigning patrols. We could blame Slugs for leading her people there, and wanting to hurt us. Or her lackeys for following. We could blame the dogs for being bred bloodthirsty. Or me, for starting this feud, and running in there possessed with nothing but hate at the thought of losing you. Or God. Or the Devil. Or - we could blame anyone at all, if we wanted. But -" Nate swallowed, "I don't think blame is going to do anyone any good right now."

"She did what she did, and now she's dead. And you did what you did but-" Nate's breath stilled as he wrestled with the sense of his words. "You and I are _alive_. A little beat up, maybe. But still _together._ In love - right?" What a fragile thing it seemed, for something so immutable in Nate’s heart. “We get one more tomorrow?”

Mal forgot how to breathe. He went very still. Listened.

A piece of him desperately wanted to trust Nate on this, but there was a ragged, void-shaped hole that tugged him in under its own gravity. Something older than Slugs—older than Nate. Ghosts that weren’t even his to claim, but still refused to be exorcised.

And if Nate was right, if there was really no one to blame, then what the hell was he supposed to do with all this anger? It had to go somewhere. Mal had tried burying it, over and over again. Tried finding it an acceptable target, but it never seemed to rest, and the only home it wanted to claim was him.

Mal wanted this to be simple—more than anything else, he wanted that. They were alive, and they’d made it through this, and they were in love, and they were together, and that was supposed to be _enough_. 

He knew he should feel happy, but he just felt sick.

“Yeah,” Mal answered, eventually. His voice was quiet enough if the room hadn’t already been silent Nate might have missed it.

Mal shifted, uncrossing his arms, but tension still clung to him like a second skin. He looked to the tub, actually _looked_ at it. Sighed.

“I guess it’d be pretty shitty of me to stand here and let this get cold. Since you ah—went through all the trouble. Sorry I kind of uhm—ruined. The moment. We can—we can get back to this, now.”

There was more to this. Nate could see it in the flick of Mal's eyes and hear it in the timbre of his voice. An unknown quantity - which frightened Nate. Enough he had to wrestle back his own nerves, lurking like jackals in the corner of his thoughts for a way in. 

But he'd meant everything he said before. Mal was not altogether a mystery, time was an ally, and patience an old friend. So it was not a crisis, this uncertainty, only a step along a winding path for both of them. Nate could believe so because, for as long as he could remember with his own mind, they'd been lost in the woods together. 

"I'm here for you, Feathers. Whatever you're going through - I _want_ to be here." It seemed important to say that, first.

"You haven't _ruined_ anything." Nate added, smiling like he meant it. He wished he could do more - sweep it all away, shelter Mal from whatever hounded his steps. Nate didn't have the power. "All I did was turn a few knobs. We can talk some more, or I'm _awash_ with plenty of puns, if you're determined to take that route."

There was something about Nate’s voice—either the words, or the reassurance behind them—that slipped through the filmy bleakness suffocating Mal. He reached for it blindly, because he _trusted_ that Nate meant what he said.

Swallowing hard, Mal tried again, “I—uh. I guess we could _set sail_ in that direction.”

“It’ll be a real _splash._ ” Nate pitched back, tapping the surface of the water and sending ripples outward.

Mal hesitated a second longer, fighting against another wave of cold doubt. Then he pushed off the last of his clothes, stepped into the tub, and sank down under the water with a muted sigh. All things considered, it didn’t really change much, but at least now he was warm.

“I’m sorry,” Mal said, though what he really meant was _I love you_. “I don’t—I don’t know why I’m—why I can’t just—” Forgive. Stop being angry. Move on. Say the right thing. Get past this, instead of tripping over it, like catching his shoe on a curb and landing face first on the concrete.

Folding his arms over the lip of the tub, Nate let his chin rest on top and watched Mal with soft eyes. 

When the silence stretched out to the point Mal appeared to be stuck, Nate answered, “I love you. You’re enough. Y’don’t have to be perfect, here.” He glanced at the wounded fingers still held above the water, then back to Mal’s face. “Just - talk to me. Okay? Say what’s on your mind.” 

The trouble was, there were a lot of things on Mal's mind. After a few moments of contemplating, he finally settled for something closer to the present; something easier to explain, even if it wasn’t really easier to _talk_ about.

Mal rotated his bandaged hand, careful to keep his elbow propped against the edge so the wrappings stayed dry.

“It—it really wasn’t that bad,” he repeated quietly. “For the uh, most part. A lot of the time I was just…sitting around. And nearly all of—um, this—” Mal lifted his left hand then used it to gesture towards his face. “—wouldn’t have happened at _all_ if I hadn’t kept pissing them off.”

A short pause followed, where Mal struggled to figure out how to proceed without upsetting Nate more. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like Slugs skipped _straight_ to breaking things for kicks, it kind of—escalated.”

Nate chewed his lip, the jackals in his mind finding a new target. 

A wash of abuse draped plainly over Mal's figure. And he talked about it like it was owed. Like he could have done something that made receiving Slugs's wrath - maybe not justifiable - but natural. Understandable. Smaller, somehow, than it really was.

Nate _understood._ With no way out, Mal fought back against a sadistic captor, and he'd been punished. Brutally. It wasn't small. It wasn't _fine_. Nate’s fists clenched against the porcelain.

The world was cruel beyond these walls. Savagery reigned over a wasteland of vast indifference. They'd survived so many tragedies. It would never make the suffering easier to swallow.

Mal still seemed to be holding back, and Nate didn't know why for certain. But the cold fury so ready to break into Slugs's camp and rip her victory apart reared from slumber. He stayed quiet for a long moment, wrestling with the surge. 

Leaning away from the tub, Nate reached to the opposite end of it where a pitcher rested. He dipped it into the warm water, and then shuffled over to sit behind Mal. A better alternative to pacing.

"...What she did was cruel, and hateful, and there's no good reason for it at all." Nate said, finally, pouring water through Mal's hair. The tang of stale grime and gore filtered into the air, stubborn remnants disturbed for the first time since they'd gotten back to the Castle. Nate kept an even tone, though the sharp edge of condemnation glinted out. And he wondered what that might mean for himself, who had been so ready to kill and main in kind to get Mal back. 

“She wanted us both dead. If she’d killed me, you’d have been next.” But Mal had to know that, already. “And it wouldn’t have been clean. She wouldn’t have cared whether you were well-behaved.”

As the water sluiced over him, Mal closed his eyes, shivering at the sensation. He let Nate work, but made no move to help or start washing on his own.

The sick feeling that had plagued him earlier returned in full force, and an acidic laugh bubbled at the back of Mal’s throat. Not a happy sound, by any stretch of the imagination. The words that followed were quiet, but just as bitter, “You know, I kinda figured that out myself, somewhere between her saying it to my face and watching her cut off my finger and feed it to one of her mutts.”

Nate's fingers drifted to a stop through Mal's hair. The pitcher hovered beneath the water.

Anger that had started to slip down bobbed to the surface again, but Mal fought it, clenched his jaw shut with enough force his teeth clicked together. A sharp little spike of pain lit up the front of his face before the effects of the med-x smoothed it away. He stayed that way until dark spots burst in front of his eyes and he was forced to breathe again.

“ _Nothing_ that happened was—was clean," Mal said, voice strained. "But if I'd played the game, instead of being a fucking idiot and _trying_ to provoke them, then maybe—"

As if frozen in place, Nate's hands did not move. No part of him moved, except the cling of his heart to every violent beat. He allowed himself to absorb these new pieces - rage, and sorrow, and frustration at his own helplessness all running together. 

Nate shut his eyes, breath held. He knew what Slugs was capable of. Knew even more what Mal could be like when he felt cornered. So maybe none of this was altogether surprising, but... 

Hearing it out loud was another creature entirely. 

Made it real. A tangible beast.

Tears pressed, though they didn't fall. From their resting place, Nate's fingers curled gently into the tangle of Mal's hair, restraint vivid in deliberate motions. Exhaling softly, and then inhaling slow, Nate pressed his lips to Mal's shoulder. Not quite a kiss, but Nate leaned into the gesture and took refuge there. He reminded himself that they were going to get through this, together, like they'd gotten through every other thing before. 

"Why'd you do it?" He asked. Not with any blame or fury. The question came just as gentle as the touch.

The impulse to shrink away from Nate’s affection took an effort of will to resist. Under the water, Mal curled his toes against the porcelain. Focused on the sensation of water tickling down the back of his neck, the side of his jaw, the distant ache of wounds the painkillers couldn’t quite touch, but stayed otherwise motionless.

“I,” he started with quiet frustration. “I don’t _know_.”

Which wasn’t a lie. Not really. Even if it wasn’t fully the truth. But how the hell was Mal supposed to wrap words around the shape of something like this? A thing so vast and uncontrollable and ugly that it felt like if he gave it an inch it’d eat him alive.

Another wet laugh shook free and Mal curled forward—not enough to pull away from Nate, but enough to indulge the tension winding him tighter. He drew his left hand close, resting his forearm against his bent knee to keep it clear of the water, and studied it with the most scrutiny he’d offered so far. Not that there was much to see now, with everything dressed up beneath the bandages, neat and white and _clean_.

“I don’t—” Mal shook his head. _No_. “I didn’t know what else to do…” _Closer._ “I didn't care what happened to me, because we were gonna die anyway, so why not. Go down savage, right? It’s not like any of this—” He gave the bandaged hand a casual flick, lip curling up in a half-snarl. “—would’ve mattered. Which is fucking stupid, I get that _now_. You still got the note, you still came, and—”

And Slugs and most of her crew were dead, and he and Nate were alive. In the end, Mal hadn’t spared anyone anything, he’d just made it worse, which was so typical he almost laughed again.

Nate’s chest ached, a cold familiar creature trying to drag him beneath the surface where there wasn't any air. Mal had given up. Accepted they were both doomed to die. Nate tilted his cheek to the side. Finally the hovering tears came loose, slipping down to join the straggling streams of water over Mal's shoulder.

Nate had been in a place so dark before living didn't seem to matter. Mal was the beacon to draw him back into the light. He believed now, there was still a chance as long as they were both breathing. Worth fighting to preserve. Was it unfair to ask that Mal believe the same?

For a moment Nate felt discarded. But for all Nate’s fears, each uncertainty, Mal had always come to reassure him. Mal might have thought it was the end, but it didn't take long for Nate to decide this wasn't a question of devotion. The two of them had enough faith to be here, together, after all.

But... 

Mal had been horrified to bring Nate into harm's way. Mal wanted to take the blame. He didn't care what happened to himself.

There were a lot of things that could mean. The creature dug its claws in, leaving Nate voiceless and uncertain. 

Nate’s tears bled hot against his skin, stinging faintly at points as they reached some small, forgotten abrasions, and Mal’s first instinct was to stop here. Clam up, take it back, apologize—run. But that was fear talking, and Mal decided it had done more than enough decision making for a while.

“It wasn’t just—that,” he continued, after the silence yawned ahead of them. Turned something over in his head, came at from a different angle. “I—I was _stuck_.” A frustrated growl. “What else was I gonna do? Just sit there and behave, take what they dished out without fighting back while I waited for you to walk into a trap? I'm not gonna play that game with anyone again, and sure as hell not with _her_.”

Agitated, Mal swore, reached up and shoved his good hand into his hair. Dug his fingers into it viciously. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t even thinking, I was just…angry.” He was _still_ angry. “What they did didn’t matter, I just kept pushing back, because at least that didn’t feel like letting them win.”

Nate opened his eyes halfway, stared at the water faintly whirling in the tub. It would be cold before they were finished, if he didn't do something. "Yeah." He murmured, more out of encouragement than certainty.

Death before surrender. Maybe the same ferocity of will that kept Mal alive, brought him back to Nate time and time again. But in a closed space with no way out, it left Mal with no option except to self-destruct. 

Brow furrowed, Nate lifted his head, brushing against Mal's ear and kissing him along the edge of his jaw. Then sat up again, bringing the pitcher and soaking Mal's hair thoroughly. 

"It - _did_ matter, though. _You matter._ If you could've - saved yourself hurt, trusted me, I -" Nate swallowed, letting his fingers brush against Mal's. "That's not what I mean. I know you do.” He swallowed again. “And I don’t blame you for any of this. It’s… I just want to understand. Playing nice might have bought you some time, a chance to escape -” There was no judgement in Nate's voice, only the struggle to navigate a sorrow. “Sometimes you win by not fighting back." 

None of what happened was a game. Surviving, escaping - a battle. Which called for tactics. He could understand the turn of phrase. But the way Mal said it didn’t sit right. Some terror had possessed him so vividly. Nate just didn’t know which one.

“What...” Nate hesitated, picking up the soap and soaking it. Weighed his question again before setting to the task of working Mal’s hair into a lather. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

Mal didn’t answer right away. He didn’t do _anything_ right away. Didn’t move, or breathe, or give any indication he’d heard Nate at all. The frantic pace of his thoughts churned to a halt.

A long, suspended silence followed.

Eventually Mal let out a slow, heavy sigh and leaned back, eased deeper into the tub and forced himself to let go of some of the tension coiled in his limbs. He drifted, the warmth of the water soothing away the worst of the lingering aches, and focused on the repetitive motion of Nate’s hands as he worked soap into Mal’s hair.

Not talking about this suddenly seemed less important than it'd been at the start of the conversation. And there was an appealing kind of symbolism to doing this here, now. Stretching out, Mal let his legs slide until his feet bumped against the opposite side.

Maybe it really was time to come clean.

“Back...before all this, I was...with someone," Mal said, the words spilling out of him from some ugly, lightless place like they'd been ready, waiting, for him to open his mouth all this time. “And I—I knew he didn’t love me, the whole thing was fucked up and wrong from the start. But I compromised, because it was better than nothing, and he wanted me, and it wasn’t all _bad_ —” It would’ve been easier, Mal thought, if it had been. Easier to write off as manipulative and cruel instead of something deserved, something earned. “—it was…fuck, a lot of it was good, really good, but when it wasn’t—”

A bead of water wound its way down the side of Mal’s neck, and almost unconsciously he reached to brush his fingertips across his throat, feather light. The memory of someone else’s hands, far less careful, filtering into the gaps. He let out a shuddering sigh and dropped his arm, watched it sink back under the rippling water.

“I was…stuck. I stopped fighting it, I tried to play nice, do what—” Mal cut off, took another breath. Continued, “Look. I—I did things I didn't want to do. I rolled over. _I played the game._ So I know it doesn't make sense, and it's stupid, but...I can't do that again. I _won't_."

Pressure built in Mal's head, behind his eyes, so he squeezed them shut and waited for it to pass.

Quiet stretched out again.

The first emotion Nate could be certain of was anger. Cold and seething. At this man - this stranger, two hundred years buried, who'd committed a crime Nate wasn't sure he could forgive. 

Nate continued his ministrations carefully - far too carefully to seem synchronized with the clenched fist of his heart. Remained attentive to every gesture, every weighted pause, as much as the words themselves Mal spoke. 

This was important, and Nate needed to know. To understand.

As soap rinsed from Mal's hair and dried in grime sloughed off, Nate finally answered. By then he had some control over the tangle of emotion inside, "I'm glad you told me." He stroked gently through the auburn mess, thick and heavy with water, but clean. His touch curled faintly along the ends, not tugging, just holding. 

What Nate really wanted was to hold Mal. All of him at once.

" _It's not stupid._ " Quiet words. But a hint of the ferocity wailing in Nate's chest shone through. Then he let his hands float over Mal's shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze. Nate wished he could do something - anything - more than this. Lift the weight beneath that left divots there. 

"...And it's not your fault." He breathed. He wasn't sure what else to say, yet. Except to repeat, "I love you. _So much."_ With a weight of conviction that surprised even Nate, whatever falls or failures might come, it would still be true, and he wouldn't be afraid to say it. 

In the wake of everything, Mal felt gutted. Nothing was quite like it had been before, but Nate’s touch, his words, the absolute assurance he offered was enough to keep Mal grounded. He let go of everything else and held onto that.

Gradually, the redistributed weight of it all shifted. Settled. Bits and pieces of something long dead crumbled and gave way, and light filtered into a place that had sat cold and untouched for years.

The change wasn’t even big. It was tiny, might have gone unnoticed for months or even years if Mal hadn’t known what to look for, but it was there. This was a first step. A way forward.

“I know,” Mal said after another span of heavy silence. Reaching up, he felt blindly for whatever part of Nate he could find. He just wanted to hold him, pull him close until there was no space left between them, and never _ever_ let go.

The thing was, Mal had never wanted to be saved. He didn’t want a hero, he didn’t want a knight in shining armor riding in on a white horse to rescue him from some far-off tower, he didn’t want someone perfect.

“I love you too, and I’m—I’m glad you’re still here.”

All he’d ever really wanted was someone to stay.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Nate answered, fingers curled between Mal’s. 

Neither said anything else for a while. Nate found himself with plenty of new context to sift through, and all the conflicting emotions to come with it. He continued washing Mal, prompting him at intervals to shift or lift a limb, but always gently. 

In many ways, all of them significant, this was the most intimate Nate had ever been with Mal. Nate took his time, moved carefully within the moment. He marked every cut, bruise, and scar he found along the way. Took note of Mal's callouses, searched out patterns in his freckles, traced the blue veins along his arms. Nate allowed himself wonder, too absorbed in the task and in his thoughts to hurry.

There was a reverence to the act, and a fragile sense of wonder in the way Nate’s hands moved. Like he was mapping every inch of skin he touched, every mark, every blemish.

Mal let himself drift in the simple pleasure of being cared for. 

To rest in the calm after the storm.

Eventually Nate spoke again, only simple things. Appreciation for Mal's hair. And how glad Nate was they'd have the rest of the day together. Soft invitations back to calm waters.

After a while, once they started to talk again and his mind had time to clear and settle, Mal shifted to lean against the side of the tub, one arm draped lazily over the edge. He offered Nate a smile, and prompted, "Well, I guess it’s your turn now. I've only got the one, but I can still lend a hand, if you want."

Nate hummed with an affectionate smirk. Ordinarily he might protest. Urge Mal not to worry about it. But this seemed - significant. Mal had allowed himself to be vulnerable. Nate would do the same. “I’d be grateful,” he teased, passing over the soapy rag.

Standing, Nate glanced around the room until he spotted a small wooden bucket - easier to sit on than the floor, for this. “I’ll fetch myself a seat and you a towel.”

“You don’t have to get up, I can—” Mal hesitated, following that thought to completion. He realized, halfway to standing, that maybe bolting out of the tub, dripping wet, was a really good way to slip and break something _else_.

With an unhappy grumble, Mal sank back into the water. “Just…take it easy, alright?”

“No ballet.” Nate agreed, grinning. He lifted the bucket by the handle and draped the towel over a bare shoulder. Stood there on display for a second, suddenly lost to himself as he stared, doe-eyed, back at Mal. 

“...See? I can save my misbehavior for a more appropriate time.” After offering the thick cotton over, Nate turned his bucket upside-down beside the tub and sat within easy reach.

Mal quirked an eyebrow at the comment, a smile ghosting across his lips. He stepped out of the tub, made a halfhearted attempt to dry himself, then moved to tie the towel around his waist one-handed.

Tried, anyway.

Three fumbling mishaps later and Mal was forced to concede defeat, settling for glaring at the cloth like it’d personally offended him.

“OK so," he said, grimacing. "Maybe I could actually use some help. If you uh, don’t mind.”

Without only a flicker of hesitation, Mal glanced between the towel in his hand, the pile of clothes—probably damp, now, with the way they were shoved up beside the tub—and Nate. Who was seated and ready for Mal to help him. _Right_.

“…Or I could just get dressed, since you’re ah—already sitting down. It’s fine.”

“I don’t mind.” Encouraged Nate with a faint snicker. Holding out a hand, he beckoned for Mal to come over. “You’d have to try a lot harder than this to inconvenience me.”

Mal peered over at Nate, eyes narrowing, although he had to fight to keep open amusement out of his voice. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Not that Mal was exactly _suffering_ here, but still.

“Maybe a little bit.” Nate’s lips teased at a laugh. 

With a roll of his eyes, Mal crossed the distance and offered Nate the towel.

“The truth is I’ll take just about any chance to cosset you.” He admitted, reaching around Mal’s waist and wrapping the ends of the cotton neatly in place up front. “How’s that?” Nate gave his handiwork a gentle pat along Mal’s hip, resting there briefly before the palm floated away. 

Mal hummed. “...I guess I can’t complain too much.”

He allowed himself a moment longer to stare, still awe of fact that this was all _real_ , before turning and retrieving the rag. Shuffling around, Mal settled on the lip of the tub.

“Although you know, that goes both ways. You gotta let me spoil you sometimes, too.” A pause, then, "You uh, ready?"

Nate shrugged amicably in reply. “That’s fair. I can pencil you in for Tuesdays?” With a playful smile, he glanced sideways up at Mal. “Yeah. More than a little ready to be clean. Heh.”

He laughed. “It’s a date.”

Mal worked slowly, much the same as Nate had. Took his time, attentive to both the lingering sweat and grime stubbornly clinging to Nate’s skin, and his still-healing injuries. He recognized this for what it was, the intimacy and vulnerability in Nate’s reciprocation, and Mal refused to take that for granted.

Occasionally, Mal stopped to brush his fingertips over a particular mark or scar, or to gently knead his thumb into a stubborn knot of muscle, hoping to bring Nate some added relief.

When he finished, Mal passed the cloth back over and teased, “Tips are appreciated.”

Nate reached up to take the cloth, and Mal’s hand too in the process. 

Letting the rag droop to the floor, Nate wrapped both palms around Mal’s fingers and squeezed, “Well, I’m a bit bare at the moment, but maybe I can make it up to you some other way.”

In the wake of Mal’s furtherance, Nate found himself more at ease than he would have anticipated. Surrender was art requiring some skill. It’d never been so intuitive before. He felt safe, and cared for, and _bare_ in a way he could scarcely remember being before. Maybe this really was the first time. 

Mal’s grin melted into something warmer. Fingers still caught between Nate’s, he bent at the waist to press a gentle kiss to the back of Nate’s hand. “I’m sure we can work something out.”


	14. Soft

After they finished cleaning up, they returned to the bedroom. Settled in, content to simply rest in each other’s company.

Eventually more food was ordered. Mal got up to retrieve it when it arrived, and he carried the tray over to the bedside, making room for it on the side table. Leaving it untouched, he eased back down onto the edge of the mattress, and took a long moment to look over the room again. Drank in the sight of this small space Nate had carved out for himself: his nest of a bed, the assortment of trinkets and treasures scattered across every surface, the way Nate had arranged and furnished the space.

It looked like the kind of place you could call home—or the start of one, anyway.

Mal wondered at that, too.

Letting his gaze roam, lost to the moment, Mal shifted. Scuffed a foot across one of the rugs put down to ward off the chill of cold stone floors, and rubbed at a deeper ache in his leg the bath hadn’t quite chased away. Then hummed, thoughtful, but content.

Nate watched Mal quietly from the nest, and it seemed he fit so easily into place here among these scattered treasures. As if it’d been made with him in mind. Nate supposed that was true, really. So much of his life up to this point had been steered by Mal, without either of them intending that effect. If there was such a thing as fate, Nate hoped this was his. 

Reaching out, he let a hand rub against the small of Mal’s back. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

And for a moment Nate wasn’t fully able to comprehend the comfort they’d found. Days spent in bed, at ease, as if no world existed beyond the door; could they really have a life like this? Living in moments where nothing else mattered, and rest came easy? It didn’t seem possible in a war torn reality, with both of them covered in scars to mark their trials. But then, so little of this seemed possible at all, maybe Nate shouldn’t count his blessings. Just be grateful for them. 

There were a dozen ways Mal could answer that question. After a few seconds of mulling over potential answers, he shrugged.

“I dunno. Just thinking, I guess.” Mal looked over his shoulder, leaning into the warmth of Nate’s touch a little more. He smiled. “About this. Us. What happens next.”

A warmth filled Nate, in spite of the uncertainty. “Well…” He shuffled upright, moving to rest beside Mal. Nate searched Mal’s gaze, smiling back. His brows flashed playfully, “For our immediate future, I wouldn’t say no to another kiss - at some point.”

“At some point, huh?” Mal tilted his head to the side, and let a hand drift until it found Nate’s. He ran calloused fingers over Nate’s knuckles, the back of his hand. Then let his hand rest there, sheltering over Nate’s and soaking up the warmth radiating off his skin like a second sun. It was echoed by a different kind of warmth that glowed in the space just behind Mal’s heart. “…But not now?”

His touch alone evoked an inhale. "I mean, I was trying not to sound impatient. But if you _ insist _ ..." 

Taking it as permission, Mal leaned forward and brushed his lips to Nate's. The kiss was gentle—chaste, by almost every comparison Mal had—but it had his stomach twisting in giddy knots all the same.

The way Nate’s fingers curled, it wasn’t hard to guess whether the sentiment was shared.

Mal leaned back enough to murmur, “Mm, yeah...I insist. In fact—” He grinned at Nate, still close enough that trying to focus nearly made him crosseyed. "—I  _ insist  _ you kiss me whenever the hell you want."

Nate reached his other hand up to stroke Mal’s cheek, chuckling hoarsely. “We’d never  _ stop _ .” Which really, didn’t sound so bad. He leaned in again, fragile but bold, chest aching. Mal’s affection drew Nate like the pull of a tide. The only choice he had was being swept out to sea.

“I'm pretty sure I could live with that,” Mal said, mirroring Nate's movement. Pressed into another gentle kiss, then swiped his tongue across Nate’s lower lip. A teasing push for more; enthusiastic, but without demand.

The hand still cradled over Nate’s closed around his fingers, and Mal brushed slow circles over the fragile web of skin between Nate’s index finger and thumb.

At first Nate just leaned close, content to lose himself in this first, small step, so magnified by time and longing. The hand against Mal’s cheek swept back through his hair. It was softer now, clean and untangled and easy to bury in. 

Lips pulling away, Nate tilted his head and kept his eyes shut, nuzzling Mal, head spinning. Nate dragged his chin up across Mal’s cheek, inhaling heavily against his temple. Pressed a kiss there, and traced the same path back down. Softly. Mindful of the bruises, but tender still. 

Mal closed his eyes, chest aching with an emotion he didn’t have the presence of mind to identify.

Knowing full well, and still hardly aware at all, Nate parted his lips slowly and kissed Mal’s mouth again, beckoning with the flick of a tongue, breathing him in. This was no fever dream, or heavy rush, but Nate was drowning in it all the same. His brow furrowed deep with strong emotion. 

At the invitation, Mal deepened the kiss. A fierce surge of affection and longing sent a shiver down his spine. Everything else became irrelevant.

There was only this. Here, now. Only Nate, and the taste of him, the heat of his breath as Mal lost himself in the moment.

Maybe it  _ was _ a dream, Nate thought. There was no way to conceive of this. It existed, and that was enough. After all the fire they’d walked through, the soft warmth Mal offered was almost too much. A gentleness too unexpected. 

Nate pressed closer, testing his tongue against Mal’s, then leaned back and tugged Mal with him toward the eager comfort of their nest. 

Hesitating only enough to make sure he wasn’t going to aggravate Nate’s injuries, Mal followed. He draped himself over Nate without breaking the kiss, and let himself drink in the warmth of body beneath, the taste of Nate, the feel of him. Shivering, Mal slid his right hand up to tangle back in Nate’s hair.

Nate groaned - a feeble, pleading sound, weak with newfound hope. Every cracked and broken part of him breathed a sigh of relief; wounds he'd lived with too long to remember living without seemed to fade far off. He was hurt, but he'd be alright. And it was the strangest thing, finding he had lost his footing only to fly into Mal’s arms. Almost as if this was where he should have been the whole time.

Restraint still colored each new touch. Even as Nate's hands found their way up Mal's back. Nate reveled in how it felt to touch Mal, hold him, and mean more behind each fragile brush than words could ever express. Nate wasn't sure how long the kiss lasted, but despite the nervous tremors finding their way into his fingertips and the wayward heat flooding south, it didn't feel like long enough. 

_ Love you,  _ he mouthed, cornflower eyes creased with affection. A palm reached down to stroke Mal's cheek, mindful of the bruises. Suddenly exhausted, he clung to Mal, content to rest beneath him for a while. 

Mal's head spun by the time they pulled away, dizzy and out of breath. The disadvantages of doing things with a broken nose seemed to go double for kissing, unfortunately, and pain was really the least of it.

Still he managed to whisper, "Yeah. Love you too," as Nate brushed against his cheek, setting Mal's heart fluttering again and tugging a soft, needy sound from somewhere deep in his chest.

Mal couldn't think of a single thing that would keep this from being absolutely, completely worth it, but the faint throbbing in his face served as a good reminder to take things slow. He'd gotten carried away once already this morning; he could pace himself here, too.

Not that Mal had any control over the way Nate's touch—the warm softness of his lips, his taste, the feel of his body moving beneath Mal—sent waves of need swooping low as other bits of anatomy took an avid interest in the proceedings.

Shifting, Mal searched for a more comfortable position, hoping to spare them both that potentially awkward conversation. At least right now. But the effort ultimately didn't do much other than make things worse, so Mal sighed and gave up on his fidgeting. Let his head droop forward to rest gently on Nate's chest, eyes flickering up to catch Nate's gaze.

"Don't worry," he mumbled with something close to chagrin. "The safety's on." A faint blush crept below freckles and bruising as Mal offered Nate a lopsided smile.

He breathed a chuckle. "How can I be sure? Dashing rogue like you might be trying to put me off guard." 

It wasn't really surprising - at least, not beyond the still-spinning revelation that Mal felt these things for Nate at all. The only thing alarming him in the immediate moment was how quickly his own piece drew to match. 

He cleared his throat, "I ah, hope you know this maiden's armed," scowled with false admonition, "Tch. No funny business." 

Some of Mal's self consciousness fled at the realization Nate had found himself in a similar predicament. He arched an eyebrow, and tried to smother a grin. "I ah—I can see that. But don't worry. I'll keep my hands to myself."

As if to illustrate the point, Mal brought both up within view, wiggling the digits of his right and making a pathetic twitching gesture with the bandage-mittened on the other. He let both drop again, chuckling, a wistful honesty creeping into his voice as he said, "I haven't forgotten who's calling the uh, shots here, I can be patient. As long as uhm, that's what  _ you  _ want."

_ Want _ had never been an easy topic, but it'd become a vastly more complicated question two days ago. Nate lived by rule of necessity. And he so often denied himself any notion of indulgence, he hardly knew how to answer at all. Even the way Mal phrased it - leaving each step entirely up to Nate - proved half a comfort, half a startling realization. There were variables. Considerations. Steps that had to be taken. In order.

And Mal in his arms. For a moment Nate wondered why he bothered with any of those inconsequentialities at all, with hunger starving in his gut echoed back in Mal's shared embrace. Nate could taste him, trusted him, and wasn't that enough?

Maybe it should be, and it was weakness on Nate's part when he smiled sadly. This all felt too new, still a page out of another person's book, rather than the first chapter of a life entirely his and Mal's. Nate  _ wanted  _ this, heart, mind, body - soul. He knew he wasn't ready, yet. 

“I wish you didn’t have to be.” Nate answered quietly,  _ not _ keeping his own hands aside and instead spreading a gentle palm against Mal’s arm. “I  _ do _ want this. Us. And I love you - God, Mal, so much it hurts.” Voice near a whine, Nate chuckled. “Even kissing you leaves my head spinning so fast I think I might lose it.”

Letting his hand wander chastely, he felt he owed some explanation, even if it meant brushing through old fears. “This is ah - a lot for me.” The admission stirred a different kind of knot in Nate’s gut. “More than I would’ve dared to hope for and I… um-”  _ Don’t want to mess this up. Don’t want to push too far, too fast, and break something being careless. _ Mal meant too much to Nate to disregard the tattered paths they took to get here. 

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to walk on eggshells. You can test the waters, show me what you want. Just - I’ve never - been able to just  _ have this. _ And it means  _ more _ with you.” Nate wondered if he was explaining too much, making a fool of his worries. “There was only - The uh, two of them, before. No one… no one after. Until you.”

Mal took his time, absorbing Nate’s words before he spoke. The weight of what Nate shared didn't escape Mal, and he wanted to offer him a thoughtful answer.

“Nate I—it’s okay.” Mal shifted, letting out a soft breath. “I'm fine,  _ really _ ." Frowning, Mal wrestled with his words. “I'm happy right now. I'd still be happy with you, even if this is all we ever did."

Blinking, Nate echoed the frown, thoughts opaque. His attention stayed fixed on Mal. 

He huffed a laugh, amusement shining clearly through his expression. "And uh, yeah, if we're doing a lot of um...y'know, making out and shit, there's probably gonna be certain... _ reactions _ . Uh, happening." Another wry chuckle. "But I'm perfectly capable of taking care of  _ that  _ on my own. I've still got one good hand."

"Psh", Nate scoffed, only the lightest press of his hand imitating a playful shove at the euphemism. He didn't interrupt, though his thoughts chased the image, and found a certain appeal in it. 

Mal cleared his throat, mentally pulling himself back on track. "Being here, with you? That's all I need." That was  _ everything _ . The only thing that mattered. "I love you—I just want you to feel good about where things are going, too."

"... Well, no worries about that." Nate replied, a tender smile softening his features. His thumb drifted up to feather over Mal's lip. For a moment Nate studied the curve of them, intent, enamored, a shape he knew he'd be content to kiss the rest of his life. 

The gesture pulled a soft noise from somewhere deep in Mal's throat, and he shivered as the touch brushed over sensitive skin. 

Someday, he'd like to know every inch of Mal so intimately, down to the last freckle. It was a risky wanting, another uncertain vulnerability which he beckoned so easily from Nate’s secret heart. There wasn’t any going back. Even if it was wrong. Even if Mal changed his mind. Nate wasn't sure he'd ever felt so fragile. But then, he’d never been held so gently. He hoped he could feel half as safe to Mal in return.

Nate’s gaze flicked to meet Mal's bright hazel eyes of myriad shades. His inhale lifted them both. "I do want more. Someday." A faint shudder breathed over the words, as if saying them out loud manifested a promise. "For both of us. But it means a lot to me - to be able to take this one step at a time." 

"Well I'm not going anywhere," Mal answered, honest and bare in the strange way he'd become around Nate. "You know where to find me. Whenever you're ready."

Warmth bloomed in Nate’s chest, encouraged by Mal’s patient sincerity. That was almost enough on its own to shake off all inhibition. With a thoughtful nod, his fingers wandered back to Mal’s hair and toyed with the strokes of flame.

Smirking, Nate issued a breath of a mischievous laugh. "And y’know - yer allowed to tell me you’re hard. I ah, do know how the equipment works. Unless you'd _ prefer _ I start using alternatives like  _ 'fishing for spring trout'? _ Or ' _ painting the pickle _ '? Which I'm fine with, by the way."

If not for his nose, Mal would've snorted. He settled for a dramatic groan and rolled his eyes instead.

"Jesus Christ— _ no _ ." He laughed under his breath, a comfortable ease settling back over him. "Alright, fine then—I'm  _ hard _ . And laying here on top of you like this while we fool around—uh, isn't...really helping that any. Which isn't a problem? I don't— _ definitely  _ don't wanna  _ stop  _ doing that, it's just...well..."

Realizing he'd almost talked his way into a corner he didn't exactly know how to talk his way  _ out  _ of, Mal trailed off, shrugging. "It's—I mean it's fine, uh, right now. We can just go back to cuddling. I wasn't,  _ uhm _ ..."

With a quiet exhale, tinged with subtle frustration—although whether that was aimed at himself, or the situation as a whole, remained unclear—Mal let his head fall to rest on Nate's chest.

"I'm just glad you're here," he mumbled. Because really, that  _ was  _ all that mattered.

Snickering, Nate curled inward to brush his nose against Mal's hair. "I'm glad you're here, too." 

Faced with such overt evidence this might be as nerve wracking for him as it was for Nate sent another wave of affection sweeping through him.

More than glad, really. How easy it would have been to never have this. Nate prayed only rarely anymore - but he followed the impulse to offer gratitude now, for even a moment like this here at the end of the world. 

Relaxing back into the mess of pillows, Nate continued to pet Mal's hair idly. For once he didn't linger on troubles to come, or plans for what tomorrow would bring. Let himself rest, and be happy to be held.


	15. Nightmare

Nate dreamt that night. And in his dream, Nora shrieked, bellowed, fought the futile fight she’d been staged in so cruelly so many times. It never got easier to watch. The same fury. The same horror. Every time like the first. An inescapable fate.

And then Nora was Mal. Fighting back. They didn’t shoot him. But Kellogg took a blade to Mal’s hand and sent just as much blood spraying across the sterile tiles of Vault 111. Fingers detached. And Mal _screamed._

Nate broke free of his restraints then, fell bitter and vengeful. But by the time he found his feet he was in the room alone with the blood. _My fault._ Alone.

Mal wasn’t dead, but he was somewhere out of reach.

This was _wrong._

How had Nate forgotten Nora. How had he dared to believe Mal could be saved. And Nate looked inward at the love he felt for the red-haired vagabond. Suddenly disgusted by it - for the selfishness it meant - Nate withered. He had no right to ask anything of Mal at all. It would be just as cruel as Kellogg. That was true. Wanting Mal was wrong. Betrayal. A moral failure. He wasn’t Nate’s to hold.

A nauseous disease ate through his gut, loathing, infectious, one that could spread.

_He’d have to cut it out._

Frenzied. Nate took the blade to his chest, crying out at tendrils of flesh pulling free. Bone and tendon, sticky. Dripping. Agony that deafened save the roaring in his ears. Hatred, for what he was and would never be. _Begone._ Carve it out. _It’s better to suffer than to harm_.

Alone.

The screams of that one raider - the boy. The fear on his face as his blood poured out across the floor. Food for Slugs’s dogs. “We aren’t so different, you and I.” Kellogg seethed, speaking with Nate’s tongue. And it wasn’t the boy on the floor, it was Mal.

Nate woke wailing.

Abrupt movement, noise, and the cold void left by something pulling away from Mal finally filtered through what had been a deep, med-x fuelled sleep. The kind of sleep that pushed him further away from consciousness than normal, and made clawing his way out of it harder, too. Like swimming through cold honey, or tar.

Disoriented, Mal flinched away from the sounds. Panic stabbed through him as he opened his eyes to blackness. He struggled against whatever he was tangled up in as instinct drove him to move, swearing, just managing to scramble away.

Only to half-trip off the edge of what was presumably a mattress.

Mal swore _again_ as his feet made contact with the cold floor, already off balance and now trying to stand on legs only questionably willing to bear his full weight. He pitched forward, by some small miracle, managed to catch himself on one knee and his good hand. The impact jarred a fresh surge of pain to life in Mal's chest, and head, his other hand, but at least he didn't end up flat on his face. _Shit_.

It was enough to shock him out of his state, though, sparse details finally snapping back into place. Shaking fingers spread across stone. A _familiar_ stone floor.

Mal swallowed, and glanced back over his shoulder. Now that he wasn’t fleeing blindly, he realized he could make out dim impressions through what moonlight crept into the room.

A bed, filled with blankets and pillows. Nate’s bed. Nate’s room.

_Nate._

Mal didn't try to get up yet, but he looked towards the shadowy figure just visible, curled in a haphazard tangle of pillows and covers. Frowned, pushing through fear and confusion, trying to make sense of the scene.

“ _Shit_. Nate, is that— _uhm_ , are you...?”

Nate was vaguely aware of Mal's voice, and he sounded real, but it was hard to be sure. Dreams felt real in their moments, too. They crept into waking hours where they didn't belong. 

Right now the world was too much a blur, pain throbbing thick and pustulous over his senses. Nate didn't answer. Only flinched tighter into himself.

 _Escape. Hide._ Get out of this room and away from anyone who might see him like this. It was a powerful urge. But his legs didn't want to work. 

No response. The line of fear pulled taut, this time focused around Nate. Because it _was_ Nate, in the bed. It had to be. Even without a response, Mal picked up as much, as adrenaline and his own memories of current events pushed back the distortion of sleep.

Mal swore again under his breath and pushed himself up stiffly. His legs held this time, and he stumbled his way back to the bed, hesitating at the nightstand as he remembered the lantern.

"Hey, Nate. It's um—it's me, okay? I'm gonna try and get some—some light in here, just hang on."

Mal made it as far as getting a hold of the matches and lantern, struggling to work the ridiculously simple task one handed, before fumbling the small box of matchsticks. They scattered, spilling across the nightstand and plinking softly across the floor.

"God fucking dammit, stupid—" Mal cut off sharply, glancing to Nate, still hunched on the bed. _No, stop—stop wasting time, forget the light._

"O-okay, I guess we don't...need to worry about that, _uhm_ , right now," he mumbled, sighing. Frustration and concern sank heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Mal gave up on the lantern. Climbed back onto the mattress and felt his way over to Nate, hesitating a second before tentatively reaching out and laying a hand on his arm.

As the fog dissipated, shame rose to take its place. Nate tensed palpably against the touch. But it _was_ Mal - in the flesh, alive, close enough to reach out to. 

And he'd been woken by Nate's nightmare. Another nail through the ribs. 

_I'm sorry,_ he wanted to say, but his throat was too tight. This was a farce - Mal had been through enough, Nate didn't have the strength to hold him, couldn't begin to offer the stability Mal deserved. 

The only thing Nate's hands could do was destroy. Hadn’t he proven that? Being touched so gently burned by comparison. Like the black creature he was. It was unwarranted kindness Mal offered. Stolen. Nate shouldn't be taking this from him. 

Every moment Nate let this continue proved how selfish he was.

Glad of the darkness to hide it, hot tears spilled loose. There was nothing he could think to say that didn't harm, so he kept silent, lost in a suffocating tangle. Curling tighter into himself, as if hoping to disappear entirely. 

Even through the dim light, Mal could see Nate's distress. Felt him tense, curl tighter, the subtle tremor in his frame. Pain of a completely different kind cut Mal to the core.

Shuffling closer he let the hand resting on Nate's arm slide up, over to his back. Rubbed slow, soothing circles across the soft fabric of his shirt, the warmth a grounding force in its own right.

After a few seconds Mal let that arm curl around Nate completely, drawing him into a loose hug—ready to let go, if it seemed unwanted, but unable to stifle the impulse in the moment.

"I love you," Mal whispered, voice gravely from sleep and tight with emotion, but the depth of truth in the statement shone through. "And I'm—I'm here, okay? I've got you."

 _But you shouldn't._ Even as a desperate part of Nate reached back through the haze. It wasn't a matter of believing Mal's sincerity, so much as knowing this was wrong. 

He shouldn’t help. He shouldn’t _be_ here. He shouldn’t have been kidnapped, or maimed, or tied to Nate’s fate at all. Nate wasn't what he pretended to be, and someday Mal would realize it.

Torn between the urge to shatter the illusion and fear of losing someone Nate was no longer sure he could live without, the silence dragged out. Trapped in a maze of his own devising, his breath held until he was dizzy. Guilt dug savage claws ever deeper. Honesty would be a sin, but so was silence.

At some point the hand rubbing Nate's back slid upwards, feathering gently through the back of Nate's hair, over and over, as much an act of affection as it was Mal chasing his own need to do something with his hands.

Mal let out a reedy breath, and murmured, "You can talk to me. Um...if it would help?" Curling up more, Mal tucked his legs closer to his body, the chill of the open air finally registering against bare skin. He rested his head against Nate's shoulder, mindful of both their wounds. "You don't—you don't have to carry all this shit by yourself all the time, you know."

Nate was weak. The fever of his dream began to fade - only a little. But enough. Eventually Mal's patience began to oppose the merry chase of loathing thoughts still loose in Nate's mind. Something like hope - which wasn't to be trusted - nudged in. 

"I, ah- ..." 

_No._ If he let Mal carry this, Nate would be doing exactly what he condemned himself over. Burdening Mal with troubles he didn't deserve.

And it _hurt._ All of this hurt. Big black throbbing ugly disgust thick in his throat. 

He didn't know _how_ to talk about it. 

Leaving Mal entirely unanswered, though, wouldn't stand. If he'd been dragged into it he ought to be given an explanation. Except Nate couldn't say, 'it's not your problem', or any other simple dismissive thing without lying outright. Something else he refused to subject Mal to. 

Nate started to lean back against Mal, but caught himself. Stuck. _Stuck stuck stuck._ In tar that boiled like it would melt flesh from bone. Any choice Nate made would be the wrong one.

Everything seemed to weigh down at once. Days or weeks or months of suspended feelings, all his wants tied on a single string that couldn't possibly hold them all up. And Mal was patient, but time must be running out. 

"You've got a big day tomorrow. I don't want to make it any harder." Nate managed, finally.

Letting his fingers continue their work in Nate's hair, Mal sighed gently. Closed his eyes, because he knew there wasn't any danger of falling asleep now. Probably not at all, at this point.

"I'm gonna worry either way, you know," he said, finally. "Whether you tell me anything or not. But ah...in my experience, it's a lot easier to deal with shit when you _know_ what you're dealing with. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. And I'm gonna stand by you, no matter what, whether you...talk to me tonight, or next week or—fuck, if you never do."

Mal shifted, left shoulder raising in a passable shrug. Reaching over with his bandaged hand, he let it rest on what he thought was most likely Nate's knee.

"But I—I know what it's like carrying something you can't tell anyone else about. It's—even if it's not the same, I _get_ it. But _nothing_ you tell me is—is gonna scare me off. I mean...alright, I might be a little concerned if I find out you've got a dark craving for human flesh or something—" A weak chuckle. "—but ah, seriously. You're not gonna send me running for the hills. We'll make it through this—whatever this is— _togethe_ r."

And another layer of shame coated Nate, that he'd managed to forget their promises so quickly. Yet more proof how much Mal deserved better. Nate took a breath. "Maybe you _should_ run for the hills." He replied, too flat to be entirely sure whether he was joking. 

But he let his hand float down to rest beside Mal's. " _I love you._ " The words bled out of Nate fast and feeble. "I think I've loved you for a long time now. I just..." Were there words for this kind of thing at all?

Nora, and Kellogg, anger, vice, lessons taught with a fist and scars no one would call beautiful.

Nate buried his face in a palm, shaking his head.

He wondered if Nora's ghost watched over him. If she cared. If she wanted him to be happy, or cursed his infidelity to the purity of memory. The real Nate, too, wherever he was. Did he watch this ghost of himself and beg it not to make the same mistakes?

Did any of that really matter when Mal had upended the world so entirely?

Nate gave a ghost of an exhale. "He never talked to anyone about this, either... But I... I don't want to keep secrets from you." He leaned against Mal, drooped really, and stuttered out another breath near to tears.

Mal hated feeling helpless. Hated watching from the outside while someone he loved suffered alone, and hated that he didn't know how to make this better. If that was even possible at all.

Unable to stop himself, Mal curled into Nate, around him. He pulled Nate close and pressed his face into his hair. Breathed him in, and grit his teeth against a fresh wave of grief and fear and helpless frustration.

"Then _tell me_ ," Mal pleaded. "Just...talk to me, Nate. _Please_."

 _"I'm sorry."_ Nate's voice cracked. For so much. Everything. 

Like so many times before, he'd driven Mal to pleading. And Nate saw it as another crucial failure, another reason Mal would be better off with - _anyone_ \- than Nate. Pain seemed to be all he could offer, in spite of better intentions. 

Instinct bid him once more to run. Hide away until it passed, and Mal came to his senses. He’d have to realize sooner or later he was in love with a fraud. Nate longed, achingly, to shelter in Mal's arms, as selfish as it was to ask anything from him after what had been taken. Accepting the offered kindness sat ill, it felt too much like stealing. The array of virulent impulses kept Nate spinning. Unable to make out up or down, backwards or forwards.

The only star he had to see by was Mal. 

And Mal wanted to know the truth.

Nate’s fists curled and uncurled, twisting into the blanket. "...I don't want to _hurt you_. I don't - know how _not_ to." He admitted, finally. It was an effort to speak. The risk of confession stung sharply, and he braced against whatever might come next.

Knee jerk reaction had Mal wanting to assure Nate he wouldn't. But that wouldn't be true, really.

They both _would_ hurt each other. Not out of malice, or neglect, or any kind of ill-intent, but just by virtue of being human and making mistakes. Mal being hurt was an inevitability, because to be human _was_ to be hurt. Over and over again, in different ways and for different reasons, at the hands of people who hated or loved him, it didn't really matter.

There was no right answer that resulted in a perfect outcome where they all got to live blameless and happy and completely safe. The only real choice they had was to decide whether or not to suffer through those hurts alone.

Mal already knew he didn't want to. He didn't think Nate really did, either.

Pressing his face closer to Nate, Mal said, "Nate it—that's what makes you _different_. It's not—fuck, it's not about never getting hurt, or—"

Mal let out a shaky breath, ruffling dark hair. Tried to sort out his own jumble of thoughts. Then asked, evenly, "You just said you don't _want_ to hurt me, right? _That's_ all that matters." Mal pulled Nate a fraction closer. "Do you really think I was better off without you? Do you have _any_ idea how—how fucking miserable and alone I was?"

Still slogging through the fog of his fears, Nate grew very still against Mal's words. They crashed against his demons with gentle savagery. As if the knife at his heart was being tugged away, carefully, by hands not his own, a sense of dual surrender and pain bled from the empty space left behind. 

Nate _had_ thought that. In more hopeful moments - even if this was _better,_ he still wasn't _enough._

A soft, bitter laugh caught in Mal's throat. "My life actually means something now. Because of _you_ , Nate. I don't—I don't want you to be perfect. You're—you're allowed to be hurt too, and fall apart, and fuck up, and yeah, maybe sometimes I'll get hurt, but so fucking what? _I don't care._ At least now it _means_ something, and I'm not—not just—"

Mal cut off his rambling with a sharp inhale, shuddering softly from both cold and overwhelming emotion. His chest felt tight, constricted, and his eyes burned.

"I love you."

The shiver. Mal was cold. Nate hesitated, and then did the only thing he knew to do - grabbing at the blanket clumsily to tug it over Mal and wrap them both in the nest. 

Nate didn't have the means to process the rest yet. Not really. Only to feel it, so strongly he was glad to already be sitting down. "I love you, too." He reaffirmed, nuzzling close. 

He gave Nate another careful squeeze, reassuring and thankful.

The lock in his throat became infuriating, but now given the chance, Nate breathed Mal in and slowly unclenched the fist inside. He _could_ breathe. And he would not insult Mal by dismissing a proclamation like that. 

There was almost a laugh. "God, Feathers, how the hell do you do that." Maybe refuge had been silence once before. Nate was starting to think it was refuge no longer. Not now that he belonged to Mal. "I meant it - y-... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me and..."

That was why it all haunted Nate so. 

“I’ll try.”

Mal let out an encouraging sound and worked his good hand back into Nate's hair, brushed gently through the strands as the knot of dread tangled in his chest loosened somewhat. This felt like...some kind of progress. A thin, shimmering thread of hope.

"That's all I'm asking," Mal said. "I'm—I'm here, and I'm listening."

Shifting again, Mal tried to tug Nate to a more comfortable angle against his side, anything but the position Nate was hunched in now. At this rate, Mal worried Nate would end up aggravating his stitches _again_. And neither of them needed the headache of that to deal with on top of everything else.

Tamely, Nate followed the prompting, wincing a little as the tension fled and nerves felt it keenly. 

Where did he start? All the cacophony of blame and doubt was still there, but cowed to whispers. 

Mal knew he had nightmares. By now - probably what some were about. Words might fall unbidden from Nate's lips and sketch an image even in the fever of it. Not a full one, still enough.

"I would have done anything to get you back," he said on shaky courage. "It didn't - nothing seemed to..." 

Nate exhaled. Maybe he could walk around to it. "They - ah... in Anchorage, but here too - snipers, would shoot enemy soldiers in the open. But not - to kill them right away. Sever the spine or…” He swallowed. Disgust colored every halting word. “They’d sob - beg. Bleed out. Their friends had to hide, just listen to them die. Others - they'd take the bait. Run out to try and save a life and... I - he - hated that. Wouldn’t dream of it. Came to blows, once, some cocky Sergeant tried to brag."

Nate was quiet for a long, tense moment, "But I - _thought about it_ on Slugs's watch. And - at least it made sense." He hissed, bile in his throat, "There was strategy - even if it's despicable. Instead - when she… I wanted her to _suffer_. I made sure she did. I wanted her to know who had beaten her, and _what hurting you meant_ , to realize that - that there was no chance, this was the end, she was gonna die alone, in agony. And now she's dead. And I'm still - still here, with the blood on my hands, knowing there's something in me _that's not what I pretend to be._ " Tears fell hot as his voice staggered off and Nate trembled violently. _I’ve never been a good man._

Words curdled in Mal's throat. Not out of judgement, but because Nate's confession struck close to home. Kicked up against Mal's own fears, inadequacies, his _anger_.

Mal tilted into Nate and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his head. Then held up his left hand, the crisp white of clean bandages more visible through the gloom. Mal stared at it for a long few moments, then let out a barely audible sigh. Too many emotions flickered just beneath the surface to sort them all out, so he didn't even bother.

"If you're gonna hate yourself for all that," Mal started, quietly, a kind of heavy somberness seeping into his voice. "Then you have to hate me for it, too." Shaking his head, he let his arm drift back to his lap. "I'm—I'm _glad_ Slugs suffered, even if that's wrong. And if it'd been me in your shoes, I would've done the same thing. Worse, probably."

Maybe not the reassurance Nate hoped for, or the condemnation he expected. Mal didn't know. But if they were coming clean about this, it only seemed fair Mal lay his cards out on the table too.

Whatever that meant going forward, for the both of them.

Discomfort twisted at the honesty of the confession, sitting like a sickness in his stomach. Nate held his breath in conflict, teetering between his own guilt and how desperate he was to forgive Mal's confession. 

Nate knew this about Mal. Had known it since the day they met that he was bare fanged, and sharp clawed, and savage by the need for survival. There was more to him than that. He'd called Nate back from the brink before that boy died. Mal wasn't evil - or selfish. Not like he seemed to think of himself sometimes. 

But did that mean Nate wasn't either?

He wrestled with the contradiction. Tumbled through it like a man caught between conflicting currents. The imprint of Mal's kiss tethered Nate. Maybe they ought to go into it together, like he promised. Maybe he had a choice, and he could make better choices with Mal beside him.

"I don't want to hate. I don't want to - act on that hate." He began, nuzzling into the crook of Mal's jaw. "I saw what Kellogg became, the things he did - it-" Nate cut off again, strangled. "He lost everything and then he didn't do anything but take. I..." 

"I don't want that for either of us." He admitted, then worried immediately whether it was overstep. Grace under pressure never seemed to apply to these moments. "Our - _love_ \- I don't want it to mean _that_ ," he added, doubting that made anything clearer, but still trying.

Old, familiar pain twisted inside Mal, sickly and cold. He shivered.

"I don't either," Mal admitted. And somehow this felt like more of a confession than anything he'd shared so far. Something uglier and more terrifying than any of the ghosts haunting him.

Before Nate, Mal—the real Mal—had only cared about himself. About surviving, whatever the cost. He'd seen the world as cold, and ugly, and cruel and hated it for it, but hadn't found any path other than the one he carved out for himself. He'd been shaped to be a weapon, and hadn't known how to find peace as anything different.

But—

A lot of things had changed since then. Because of Nate.

"I want to be better—I want—" _To be more like you._ Swallowing hard, Mal tried again, "I'm just—so angry, Nate. All the time, and I-I don't _want_ to be, it s _cares me,_ but I don't know how to _stop_."

Cold shock flared down Nate's spine, and he coiled closer, ignoring the protests of a dozen bruises along his person. Breathed Mal in. Found courage in the strength he'd been offered, here in this room, as they wrapped their lives together.

 _"I love you."_ Natee repeated, desperate with sincerity. Would that be enough? When he didn't know what to say, or do, how to mend or be mended? 

"I love you, and you're a _good man._ " His palm spread over Mal's chest. These confessions still felt so new, but Nate had rarely been so certain. Even in the bloody wound of fear, he’d be honest. He promised. "You make _me_ a better man - and that scares me. You’re why I believe in good things." He shut his eyes. Head swimming. Mal seemed to be the answer to a hundred questions Nate never thought to ask. “I’d do anything for you.” _Even change._

Mal stopped breathing for a long moment. His arm, still wrapped around Nate, twiched close around his shoulders, fingers curling loosely in the fabric of Nate's pajamas. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and the hand braced against Mal's chest burned. Searing and white-hot, like a brand. Ducking his head, Mal leaned against Nate and brought his bandaged hand to rest lightly over the top of Nate's.

"I love you too," he mumbled, drunk and giddy and overwhelmed and fucking _terrified_ by the seemingly-unconditional love and forgiveness Nate offered. Time and time again.

Mal didn't think he could believe he was a good person. Not now; not yet. But he trusted Nate, and he trusted Nate's judgement, and for whatever reason Nate had looked in at the worst of Mal, all of it, and saw something worth saving.

No. Not saving. Something worth _loving_. Which Mal realized now were maybe one and the same.

" _I love you,_ " Mal said, clearer. A fractured laugh caught in his throat. Thick and choked, but _relieved_. "And I'm—I'm gonna try to live up to—to all of that, okay? Be better. Everyday." A short pause. "We can do this. _Together_. Take things one step at a time."

Nate's hand twisted to curl feather-light across the bandaged one. " _Together._ " The word like a prayer with all certainty of being answered. Not alone. Neither of them had to be alone, anymore. 

He could scarcely comprehend Mal's acceptance, only offer it back, believing in what they'd found. 

The terror of night faded. His flaws lacked the same power over him they'd held in his sleep. Maybe Nate wasn't good, or righteous, or what he wanted to be. But he had the strength in him to learn, and Mal's love to guide him. What an extraordinary thing to believe in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! ;A; This was one of the first 1x1 roleplays fyris and I did with these two, and originally we'd only thought the two would continue pining for each other after the rescue. But Nate and Mal took the wheel and set... all of this into motion in such an unbelievable way. I'm really glad they ended up together. We've now written almost 500k words for them across dozens of aus, and it all took off from this. So it's a really special story, and it's good to be able to share it! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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